


Lavender Town

by velleities



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers and Company, Bucky Really Wants a Flower Shop, Canon Pocket Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Guardians of Galaxy Team, M/M, Minor Angst, POV Bucky Barnes, Past Character Death (Vision), Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Infinity War, Stucky Big Bang 2017, The Domesticity is Strong in This One (Until It Isn't)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 09:16:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11871246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velleities/pseuds/velleities
Summary: Bucky lives in a sleepy town, shares a house with his should-be-boyfriend Steve, and helps Wanda with her crafts. He likes hanging out with Clint the owner of the animal shelter, and drinking Natasha's delicious coffee at the bakery. But there is something off about this life that Bucky can’t quite place; Tony Stark dislikes him for no apparent reason, his dreams are too strange to understand, and his left arm occasionally glints under the light. A series of strange events clue Bucky in on the fact that maybe their lives aren’t what they seem...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Stucky Big Bang 2017, with[ amazing](http://thisfanisonfire.tumblr.com/post/164458178583/somethings-changed-its-as-if-its-as-if) [art](http://thisfanisonfire.tumblr.com/post/164458176648/photosets-for-the-fic-lavender-town-from-the) by the loveliest [thisfanisonfire](http://thisfanisonfire.tumblr.com/) <3.
> 
> So many thank-you are in order <3\. Infinite gratitude to [octobergryphon](http://octobergryphon.tumblr.com/), [rohkeutta](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rohkeutta/pseuds/rohkeutta/works/), [a-conspiracy-of-cartographers ](http://a-conspiracy-of-cartographers.tumblr.com/) and [stuckybarneslove](https://stuckybarneslove.tumblr.com/) for the beta-reading, to [silentwalrus1](https://silentwalrus1.tumblr.com/) for helping out with the Russian, and to the RBB Slack Channel for all the support and encouragement <333.
> 
> As always, come cry with me [on Tumblr](http://buckities.tumblr.com).
> 
> *Now there's [more art](http://vvinterdumpling.tumblr.com/post/164618613334/lavender-town) by the generous [vvinterdumpling](http://vvinterdumpling.tumblr.com/)! :)

 

 Smoke is filling up his nostrils, dust is shutting down his lungs and he can’t breathe –

 He tries to inhale, a deep breath, short, any breath. The atmosphere is thick, devoid of oxygen. The effort leaves his chest rattling.

 A flash of fire plunges from above and someone screams – _Wanda_ screams, and someone’s sobbing, weakly at first, then loud, hiccupping; desperate.  

 His neck burns, protests when he tries to shift. He stares up at whirlpools in the sky, at the throbbing purple clouds of smog.

 The earth shakes, once, and then again.

 It won’t stop. It’s not going to stop until the ground splits in two.

 A red and gold blur flies past. Metal crashes against...

 Crashes –

 The earth roars.

 He catches a glimpse of blond hair – _he’s not moving, why isn’t he moving –_ and Bucky flails, arms waving uselessly at his sides as he croaks out Steve’s name. He cries out, a soundless scream as pain stabs his throat.

 Gravel and glass dig into his palm as he struggles to his knees, falls back, tries again.

 A blinding light, and the world goes dark.

~

 Bucky wakes up with a start, wincing at the brightness of his bedroom. He turns his head to the window, glares blearily at the conspicuously open drapes. The maple tree outside is in full bloom, the orange of its leaves too vivid for his sleep-muddled brain. He props himself on his elbows, his eyes sweeping the room. Nothing is out of place, but then again he can’t think why anything should be. His small desk is as empty as ever, save for a plant, a small cactus with bright flowers. He stares at it curiously, wonders when he watered it last.

 He inspects himself. He’s slept in his clothes, and for the love of him he cannot fathom why. He gets off the bed, groaning at the strain on his muscles, and sways a little, oddly disoriented. He changes out of last night’s clothes into clean jeans, a t-shirt and a hoodie, his movements slow, his chest feeling hollow.

 It must’ve been a dream, he determines. Dreams sometimes leave him disoriented – leave everyone disoriented. If the effects linger so strongly after it’s passed, he’s damn glad he can’t remember it.

 He reaches out to open the door and hesitates, right hand hovering over the doorknob. His left hand trails the doorframe, the polished wood smooth against his skin. He watches, transfixed, as his fingers trace patterns on the wall, slow shapes of horizontal eights, consecutive lines that never break. The muscles of his hand stretch and contract, the veins visible under his pale skin, and still he traces eights, infinite figures of –

 Infinite –

 He shakes his head. He’s being ridiculous.

 He takes the stairs to the ground floor, hand trailing over the railing, spirits lifting at the sweet smell wafting in the air. He turns into the roomy kitchen and his lips tug upwards when he sees Steve, toiling over a pan of pancake batter. The two plates beside him are already formidably stacked; the pan’s heat has turned his cheeks red. Bucky goes straight for the kettle, brain on autopilot: _coffee – coffee – coffee_.

 Steve’s face splits into a grin. “Ahoy there,” he says, giving Bucky a two-fingered salute.

 Bucky finds himself grinning back. “Coffee,” he murmurs as he grabs the kettle. “Early.”

 Steve huffs out a chuckle. “Pancakes?”

 “Yes,” Bucky replies, stirring sweet, blessed coffee into a mug.

 He crinkles his nose as he tries to visualize his batch of pancakes and comes up short. He doesn’t quite remember how he likes them, can’t quite match them to a topping, not one he’s tasted or prefers.

 He suppresses a sigh and gulps the coffee down. He needs to jumpstart his brain, else he’ll spend all day sleepwalking. He grimaces when the bitterness hits him, letting out a small choking sound as he hurriedly dunks spoonfuls of sugar in his mug and curses his bleariness.

 Fucking pancakes.

 Steve seems to know how Bucky likes them anyway, skipping questions on toppings altogether, but then again, of course he would. He wakes up at the crack of dawn, Bucky reminds himself, early enough to have his whole life figured out by the time Bucky starts contemplating getting out of bed.

 Bucky takes a seat on the table, cracking his neck in relief. For christssake, a little more disoriented and he could have forgotten he’s living with Steve, or that he knows him, even. He lets Steve serve and makes a mental note to wash the dishes later, a thank-you for the breakfast.

 Steve grins at him around a mouthful of food, and Bucky downs the last of his coffee. He cradles the mug tightly, cheeks puffed out as he absently neglects to swallow, eyes fixed on Steve’s freshly-washed hair. The sunlight streaming in through the window makes it look like shining gold.

 “Still sleeping?” Steve asks, amused, popping a blueberry in his mouth.

 Bucky starts minutely and swallows.

 Fucking weird dreams that he can’t quite remember.

 He cuts into his pancakes and licks maple syrup off his lips.

~

 Steve pulls on his jacket and runs a hand through his – fine, fine – hair, attempting to style it into something decent. Bucky leans against the wall, folding his arms and nodding his immense appreciation.

 “I’m visiting Mrs. Bender today,” Steve says.

 It takes a moment for the information to register, but then it clicks. Mrs. Bender, whose husband died, ironically, in a fender bender. Life is funny like that. Mrs. Bender, who suggested that Steve volunteer at the care home of Lavender Town. Mrs. Bender with the knowing twinkle in her eyes every time she sees Steve and Bucky in the company of one another.

 “You going to Wanda’s?” Steve prods.

 “Mm hm,” Bucky hums absently.

 “So we’re walking together,” Steve says, with the tone of a kid solving a complicated math problem.

 So they’re walking together. Bucky ties his hair in a short bun at the back of his neck, and follows Steve out of the house. He locks the door behind him, and starts for Wanda’s. As he has always done.

 Tony Stark, their neighbor on the opposite side of the street, glares at Steve and Bucky the moment they exit their front garden, as he too has always done. Hand on his shears, midway through trimming another one of his perfect bushes, he stares at Steve and Bucky as though he intends to burn a hole through their heads. The effect is all but diminished by the cuts on his face, ranging from angry red to irritated pink, that make him look like he just came out of a fight.

 Bucky half-wishes Stark’s next-door neighbor and best friend – a real saint and martyr, really – Officer Rhodes were there, to nudge and mutter at the man till he stopped staring.

 Clint insists it’s a “neighboring gardens rivalry thing”. After all, Stark wants to be the best at everything, be it amateur gardening or becoming the town’s top mechanic – which isn’t hard, as the town has no other mechanic. Bucky is pretty sure it’s something deeper. He cannot think of any good reason, not something he or Steve have done to personally offend Stark, but his stomach squirms with guilt all the same.

 Steve resolutely ignores the man, walking down the street at an unruffled pace. He could almost get away with it, successfully pass off as truly nonchalant, if it weren’t for the tension in his shoulders, the defiant way he raises his clenched jaw.

 They don’t even have a nice garden. They have a mess of a garden. Maybe that’s why Stark is angry. Maybe they’re ruining his idea of a picture perfect neighborhood.

 Steve veers left. He halts when Bucky doesn’t quite follow but hovers in the middle of the street instead, uncertain and confused.

 Steve gives him a perplexed look. “Where are you going? No coffee run today?”

 Bucky huffs out a deprecating chuckle and falls into step on Steve’s left. Of course coffee run today. Coffee run every day – that’s what they always do; what they’ve always done.

 He shakes his head. What a strange fucking day.

 Maybe he’s coming down with a cold. Maybe it’s making his head fuzzy.

 He shoves his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, a soft, comfy thing that he doesn’t remember buying but now needs more of, and wishes he was wearing sunglasses. He reasons it’s for sun protection, but really, he just wants to hide behind a shield.

 Steve nods at a lady with a stroller and she smiles, her curly-haired toddler making cooing sounds at his rattling toy. The lady smiles at Bucky too, and Bucky smiles back, because it’s not her fault that he’s still groggy, and it’s not her fault that he woke up on the wrong side of life. With his clothes on. Literally.

 “Heeey, hey hey!”

 Bucky looks up at Clint’s chirpy voice. He doesn’t quite expect the two large dogs that are dragging him forward, but then again, he never knows what to expect of Clint. He doesn’t quite expect the black eye that Clint is sporting either, a quite prominent blue and purple shiner stretching the whole length of skin underneath Clint’s right eye.

 The largest dog, black and scruffy with a lolling tongue and dribbles of saliva, fights its way toward Steve. The other dog, honey-colored with drooping ears, yaps happily, but treads with more dignity, Clint limping behind it as it goes.

 “Hello there!” Steve drops down on one knee and reaches out, engulfing both dogs in a loose hug. He ignores Clint in favor of the dogs, petting and fussing over them as they lick his hands and rub their heads against him. Steve coos, “Who’s that pretty boy” and “Look at you, you little princess.” The honey-colored princess wags her tail ecstatically.

 Clint rolls his eyes.

 “Morning,” Bucky drawls. “Dog walking?”

 “Someone has to,” Clint says, leaning his weight on his non-limping leg. “Till these little fellas get adopted.”

 “Shut up, Barton, you love it,” Steve chides.

 “What happened to you?” Bucky asks, tilting his head towards Clint’s face.

 Steve looks up, brow furrowing when he spots the injury.

 “Nah, nothing,” Clint says, waving a hand dismissively. “Tripped on a thing yesterday. Got a bit of that, bit of a limp, bit of the same old, same old.”

 “You need anything?” Steve asks.

 “Who, me? I’m _resilient_ , Rogers,” Clint says with a laugh. “Don’t need no pampering.”

 The dogs bark and battle for Steve’s affection, effectively distracting him from further human interactions. Steve makes a sound close to ‘nngmuph’ and smooshes the black dog’s face.

 This could take a while. The bakery is right around the corner, so near yet so far, and Bucky gives it a wistful glance.

 “I’ll go grab the coffee,” he announces.

 Steve takes a moment from the dogs and turns to Bucky. Bucky recognizes it as the great and true sacrifice that it is.

 “Get me the usual?”

 “Get me something too, you ass!” Clint yells at Bucky’s back as Bucky walks away. “You didn’t even ask!”

 Bucky grins and raises a middle finger.

 “Surprise me!”

~

 The bakery, in truth a bakery café, is famous for its impeccable pastries and Natasha’s coffee-making skills. She doubles up as waitress, keeps the bakery in order, and is the only person running it aside from Scott, the baker. He tries his best to help out, but Natasha isn’t swayed by good intentions and more often than not makes sure he stays in the kitchen.

 Natasha barely spares Bucky a glance when he walks in, the bell tingling his presence. Bucky approaches the counter, appreciating the tarts and pastries on display.

 “Morning,” he greets quietly.

 Natasha gives him a small nod, but otherwise ignores him. She takes her time wiping the last table clean and cracks her neck, her expression bored.

 For social niceties’ sake, but mostly because Natasha can be intimidating in her silence, Bucky asks, “How goes it?”

 “I swear,” she grunts, making her way behind the counter, “I don’t get this place. Why am I even here,” she murmurs to herself as she drops her towel by the sink. “What am I doing here.”

 It’s more a statement than a question, a complaint that makes her scowl as she straightens non-existent folds on her apron. She tightens her ponytail, every hair in place in a way that Bucky could never master with his own self-styling, and rolls her shoulders.

 “Where else could you be?” Bucky asks idly.

 “I dunno. I used to dance,” she mutters. “For a long time. A long time ago.”

 “But somehow you ended up here,” Bucky says.

 “Somehow I ended up here,” she echoes.

 “You don’t like it?”

 “I don’t hate it,” she allows with a shrug. “It’s peaceful. Something tells me if I weren’t here, I’d be doing much, much worse things.” She smirks to herself, then turns to Bucky, still faintly amused. “What’ll it be?”

 “Coffee,” Bucky says, the information dawning as he speaks, “one black, one sweet, and a mocha.”

 “The usual then,” Natasha remarks as she turns to prepare the drinks.

 She side-eyes Bucky and smirks again, a lopsided little thing. It’s actually an accomplishment, getting that much out of her.

 “Where’s your boyfriend?” she asks slyly.

 Bucky nearly breathes out in relief before catching himself. It’s the first thing he’s heard today that feels familiar, part of a routine even if nothing else has; even if Steve isn’t actually his boyfriend. He could be, _should be_ , in an ideal world. Maybe will be, eventually.

 The not-boyfriend in question saunters in as if on cue, the bell’s tingle announcing his timely arrival. He gives Bucky his brightest smile and nods toward Natasha. “Morning!”

 Natasha mutters her good morning – another accomplishment, getting an actual greeting. Steve recognizes it as such and beams, brushing dog hair off his arms and chest.

 Bucky clicks his tongue, just short of smacking himself on the forehead, because – Clint.

 “And something for Barton,” he tells Natasha. “Coffee. Surprise him.” He sucks in a breath through his teeth as his memory fails him once again. “And cookies,” he adds, lips twisted in apology.

 Natasha shoots him a glare.

 “You’ll keep adding things as you go, or...?” she says dryly. “There’s choc chip, cherry. _Hey, Scott_ ,” she calls at the kitchen, “how’re those pecan cookies coming along?”

 Scott pokes his head out the kitchen door.

 “Oh, hey, the vets that love the Mets!” he exclaims with a grin.

 At least _that_ reference Bucky remembers. A white L-shaped couch in someone’s entertainment room; Steve and Scott arguing about the Mets and their baseball prowess. Bucky nurses an icy drink, barely listening. He looks wistfully out the window walls, at tropical trees that seem to reach the sky, unmoving and dry under the scorching sun.

 “You don’t want to go outside,” a woman with colorful bangles and a friendly smile tells him in an accented voice. “You’ll burn your skin off.”

 Scott asks for his opinion and Bucky wishes he knew more on the topic, wishes he were as passionate about something, anything, as Scott and Steve; but he doesn’t, and he isn’t. Still, Steve looks at him with that expectant, overeager expression, only short of begging him to take his side, so Bucky musters what enthusiasm he can and quietly agrees.

 “Pfff, pal. Mets all the way.”

 It had stuck.

 Presently, Natasha huffs, breaking Bucky out of the vivid memory. “Cookies.”

 “Oh, they’re – they’re not done yet,” Scott says. He looks away as he makes his calculations. “If you just hold on, about seven minutes, ten tops –”

 “No, it’s fine,” Bucky assures.

 “Yeah?” Scott says, the corners of his mouth turned downward. “I can send some over if Nat isn’t busy –”

 “Natasha, and she’s always busy,” Natasha asserts over the noise of the coffee machine.

 Scott presses his lips together in a pained smile.

~

 It’s a peculiar habit to adopt, but it’s Wanda’s, and it’s Bucky’s, so adopt it they have. Foregoing short hugs and cheek pecks, Wanda tips her forehead against Bucky’s, a gentle smile softening her face and making her eyes crease at the corners. The gesture holds the echo of something that happened long ago, even though it must’ve happened yesterday too, and the day before that, and every day Bucky has been in Wanda’s presence since he moved into this sleepy town.

 Or so he guesses. He doesn’t remember much from that time.

 Wanda giggles and bumps his arm with a small fist. She relieves him of her coffee cup and whirls inside, the action familiar. Her flowy dress catches around her legs as she moves, exposing the burns on her skin. They look angry still, but at least the blisters are fewer than expected for such cause of injury –

 The cause of injury –

  _What_ cause of injury.

 Bucky frowns. He knows this, but it’s lost, the information somehow hidden. He makes a strained sound and doesn’t realize he’s staring.

 “What?” Wanda looks at her leg. “The burn? It’s still there, what did you expect? Don’t stare!” She smiles bashfully. “Will teach me to pay attention to where I’m going and not spill boiling liquids all over myself.”

 Right, of course. Liquids. Bucky gives himself a mental head shake. “Are you using any cream, or –”

 “It’s fine, Bucky.”

 “You could use vinegar, helps with burns,” he murmurs.

 Wanda’s eyebrows lower in amusement.

 “Vinegar? How do you even know that? Come on” – she beckons, as Bucky mumbles, “I know things.”

 She leads the way through her rustic living room toward the back, into the bafflingly cramped kitchen. It’s not so much that Wanda lacks space, but the room is always packed with ingredients and utensils, a perpetual disarray as the downside of Wanda’s homemade concoctions. Essential oils take up one corner of the table, food colorings litter the other.

 Wanda is always making something, and Bucky is her ever-skillful little helper – as random as his skillset is, from acting like a knife master to handling delicate decorations with a grace and caution he never would have guessed that he possessed. Their arrangement works. Wanda makes a living making somethings out of nothings; Bucky helps her speed things up, keeping himself occupied in the process. The town people gladly buy and consume the creations. Everyone is kept at peace.

 “I spoke with Viz,” Wanda announces. Her voice pitches up an octave, her excitement evident.

 Bucky raises questioning eyebrows.

 “He said he’ll visit soon.” She’s practically bouncing on her feet. “He sounded good. I told him I dreamed of him last night, and he said something about the strange world of dreams – as if he doesn’t have dreams himself.” She shakes her head, amused and bewildered. “Everyone has dreams.”

 “Sadly,” Bucky confirms. “When’s he coming?”

 “He said soon.” Wanda grins. “You’ll get to officially meet him, _again_.”

 Bucky rolls his eyes. He’s met Vision before, but he barely remembers. It was always in passing, as Wanda tells him, a hurried nod or an over-the-shoulder ‘hello’ during brief introductions. It feels too long ago; it feels like yesterday.

 “I spoke to Pietro too,” Wanda goes on, taking a quick sip of her mocha. “He’s doing great, he’s got a tan now from all the work.”

  _Building houses in Sokovia,_ Bucky’s brain informs him.

 “I miss him, though.”

 She shakes her head, biting her lower lip to disguise its wobbling as her eyes get misty. Bucky allows her to have her moment. He makes himself useful, retrieving measuring cups and setting clean towels on the table. Wanda nods appreciatively.

 “Anything else?” he asks.

 Wanda’s eyes sweep over bowls, bottles and whisks. “The salts.”

 Bucky hefts the salt bags onto the table.

 “All right?” he asks as Wanda squares her shoulders with a last sniffle.

 “Yeah, I –” she chuckles awkwardly– “Three years is just too long. At least he’s doing what he loves.”

 Bucky nods. “And are we doing something that _we_ love today?” he asks with exaggerated cheerfulness.

 “Out of bath bombs,” she says, rolling up the sleeves of her cardigan. “We must rectify that.”

 “Of course,” Bucky says, studying the essential oils. “You need to cater to your customers.”

 “ _Our_ customers,” Wanda mutters. “Can you just get the flower petals, they’re by the door.”

 Sitting at the table, slowly whisking ingredients into mixes, they work in comfortable silence, as they always do when paired up together.

 Wanda passes Bucky her filled mould. He passes her his half-empty one in turn.

 “Tap it with the spoon, make sure it doesn’t stick,” Wanda instructs.

 Bucky twists the mould, removing the two plastic halves. He gently holds the fresh bath bomb in his palm, smooth and shiny, red and violet, with the scent of roses permeating the air. He breathes it in, taking a moment to marvel at their joint creation.

 Wanda notices his starry-eyed expression, her lips twitching into a half-smile. Bucky clears his throat awkwardly and sets the bath bomb aside.

 “They need to dry for about a day,” Wanda says, dusting mixture off her fingers. “We’ll move them to the living room, have the kitchen clean for tomorrow.”

 “Dare I ask?” Bucky says.

 “Liqueur day,” Wanda replies simply.

 They fill, squeeze and release, their drying collection growing, their fingers getting gritty with the yellow grains of the second batch. The birds twittering outside are the only sounds for a while, until Wanda shifts in her chair and bites her lower lip.

 “Bucky,” she says, eyes on her mould, “we should really rethink that garden plan.”

 “The garden plan?” Bucky asks.

 His eyes fall on the dried petals and something clicks. The plan of keeping a garden of their own, instead of ordering from sellers. Of course.

 “Stark would have our heads on a platter if we started growing flowers better than his,” he grumbles, though the idea does sound appealing, now that he remembers its existence. Creating round fizzy items out of baking ingredients and color makes his heart feel warm. They’re pretty, and they’re _his_ , and he’s _creating_ , so he can easily imagine how fulfilling growing living things would be, watering and tending seeds till they grow to maturity.

 “Not just flowers,” Wanda says. “Think long-term. We need fruit too, and vegetables. They’re so much better when they’re homegrown.”

 “You get yours from Thor’s farm,” Bucky points out. “Technically, they _are_ homegrown.”

 “Still.” Wanda wipes her hands. “You like flowers. I’ve seen you staring at my orchids.”

 “The colors are nice,” Bucky mumbles, eyes averted. He does like flowers, but he doesn’t need to publicize it. It would surely ruin his gruff and aloof image if he were to go around waxing poetic about how good flowers smell and how they remind him of home.

 Not this home, the one he currently resides in. A past home, maybe. A childhood home.

 He should bring some flowers into his and Steve’s home, even if they come in a vase.

 “I don’t even water them, they’re not in the sun,” Wanda says. ‘They are just there, and they grow. You’d take better care of them.”

 Bucky looks up at her. “Yeah?”

 Wanda shrugs. “It’s what you do. You take care of things.”

 Bucky scoffs, twirling the spoon between his fingers with an agility that dazzles even him. “Right.”

 “Pour that,” Wanda says, nodding to a wet mixture, a contained pool of blue.

 But Wanda has it wrong. Not wrong; _off_. No one needs nurturing in Lavender Town. Everyone’s safe. Everyone’s happy.

 Bucky ignores the tight feeling in his throat and pours.

~

 Bucky walks back at a leisurely pace, his bath bomb loot from the day jiggling in a bag at his side. Orange and blue clouds tint the sky as the sun lazily descents on the horizon, ready to give its place to a crescent moon. The sight brings on a sense of sweet nostalgia, filling Bucky’s heart with something warm.

 Officer Rhodes is out for his daily run, his morning shift at the station leaving him restless with idleness. His sweatshirt is already damp, clinging to his torso as he goes.

 Bucky salutes him.

 “Catch any thieves?”

 “Only a kitten too bold for its own good,” Rhodes calls as he jogs backwards, lifting his shoulders.

 Bucky shrugs theatrically, grimacing his sympathies.

 Steve is in the kitchen when Bucky makes it home, his feet on the table and a sketchpad propped up against his thighs. Bucky shakes the bag and passes it to Steve, who grins, happy for the perks of Bucky’s toils. He takes his feet down and rummages in the bag for a better look.

 Bucky circles around him to grab a glass. He glances at Steve’s sketchpad, currently forgotten on the table. The paper is full of indistinct shapes, lean and alien-looking, holding tall, long sticks that remind him of scythes. It’s still in the sketching stage, just lines upon lines giving a rough idea of what’s to follow, but the figures look vaguely familiar; they must be old ideas, to be updated or perfected.

 Steve holds out a yellow bath bomb, peers appreciatively at the red petals scattered on top. “I like this one.”

 “Honeysuckle and vanilla,” Bucky informs, pouring himself juice.

 Steve holds out another, examines it closely.

 “That one smells like roses,” Bucky says.

 Steve sniffs it experimentally. “Definitely does.”

 “We should open a flower shop,” Bucky blurts out, moving to the side to better gauge Steve’s reaction.

 Steve turns to him, eyebrow raised.

 “I’m serious.” Bucky leans against the counter. “There are none in town –”

 “That’s mostly because everyone grows their own flowers,” Steve points out.

 “And it would help with Wanda’s crafts,” Bucky finishes.

 “Both your crafts,” Steve murmurs, turning his whole body towards Bucky.

 “We can grow them in the front garden,” Bucky continues. “Weed that damn thing, it’s about time.”

 “And we could also hire a guard to save us from Tony’s wrath,” Steve says, amused, toying with his pencil.

 “It’d help if you made friends with him,” Bucky says, pointedly taking a sip of juice.

 Steve snorts. “Why me? _You_ could be friends with him –”

 Bucky shakes his head. “Not gonna happen. He glares at me a little harder than he glares at you. And I’ve seen him actually address you when we’re in the same vicinity.” He licks his lips thoughtfully. “It’d be easier if it’s you.”

 “I’ve tried,” Steve says, raising his hands in surrender. “You know I’ve tried.”

 “You baked him olive bread,” Bucky says drily.

 “I did!” Steve exclaims, as though olive breads are ultimate friendship offerings.

 Bucky tilts his head, unamused. “He hates olives.”

 “How was I supposed to know?”

 Steve leans against his chair and props his feet back on the table. He drags the sketchpad onto his thighs as before and absently continues on with his figures.

 His eyelashes flutter as he blinks, unfairly thick and long; he wets his lips, unduly smooth and pink. It’s uncalled for, really, all of it, and especially that stupid jawline of his that Bucky can’t help but stare at, soon to be covered in scruff if that five o’clock shadow is anything to go by. Bucky doesn’t remember ever seeing a lumberjack kind of Steve, and his hand itches at the thought of running his fingers in that future beard. He suppresses a click of his tongue, impatient with himself. It’s not the first time he’s seeing Steve, and feelings or not, he can damn well show some self-restraint.

 Right about now, before suspicious things start happening in his pants.

 “Had fun with Mrs. Bender?” he asks, shoving Steve’s feet off the table because it _is_ the kitchen table, and they _eat_ on it. He plops down on a chair; they’re not heathens, even if his manners only kick in as an afterthought.

 Steve’s face lights up at the question, and he rearranges himself without complaint. “Mr. Cary came over, told us stories from the Depression and World War II,” he says, and now his cheerfulness makes sense; Steve thrives on discussing history.

 Bucky props his chin on his palm. “He that old?”

 “Yep,” Steve says. “Told us about how he would go dancing with this girl – he lived in New York then – and he’d go with her all the time, and he was smitten, but then he just never saw her again. Got really emotional.” He smiles absently. “I kinda wanna draw it for him. For a birthday maybe.”

 “Them dancing?”

 “Well, yeah,” Steve replies. “He describes her very vividly, and I can fill in the rest.”

 “Red lipstick, no doubt,” Bucky says, because he can fill in the rest just as well. “Lanky young man, perky young woman, dimmed lights, a dramatic dip. Maybe a couple people watching from the sidelines, a friend cheering them on with cheeks red from alcohol, or jealousy, or...”

 He stops, blinks nonplussed as Steve waits for him to go on. Steve knows that era, has read on it and doesn’t stop talking about it. Bucky must have picked up on it at some point, and now here they are, acting as if they know that lifestyle firsthand, like self-entitled faux historians.

 “Jesus.” Bucky shakes his head. “Your Turbulent Thirties, fucking Flying Forties, it’s rubbed off on me, you nerd.”

 Steve lifts his shoulders. “It feels like home, you know.”

 “Yeah? Maybe you should’ve been born back then, take up residence in a Hooverville, see how you’d have liked _that_ ,” Bucky teases. His heart clenches with an anxiety that doesn’t make sense, given the impossibility of his statement, and he coughs awkwardly. “What happened?”

 “Hmm?”

 Bucky hums, pursuing the subject despite himself. “Why didn’t he see her again? Was he drafted?”

 “It was her that disappeared,” Steve says. The edges of his mouth tighten. He deliberately keeps his eyes downcast as he goes on, “Her brother died in action and she... She had a hard time after that.”

 The scratching of Steve’s pencil is deafening in the silence that follows. Bucky watches Steve trying to rein in his quickened breathing, and Bucky himself feels suddenly dizzy. He clutches the table for support, grounding himself in the present through the sudden pang of panic that’s making his chest hurt. Something’s poking at his mind, trying to take the front of the stage.

 He pushes it back.

 “So!” he says, more forcefully than necessary.

 Steve starts at the sudden change of tone, but perks up, appreciating the distraction.

 “You, me, flower shop,” Bucky says. “Think about it.”

 Steve smiles tiredly. In the span of two minutes he’s gone from looking like a clear, morning droplet hanging from the tip of a fresh leaf to a bone-weary warrior whom the world has beaten till he can’t get to his feet. Bucky chews on his lower lip, vague uneasiness gnawing at him.

 “I’ll think on it,” Steve says. “I’m already thinking about it. I’m backing it.”

 Bucky thumps his hands on the table, leaving it shaking. “Excellent. We’re doing it. We’re _businessing_ ,” he hisses teasingly, and Steve laughs.

 And that’s just about the best sound in the world.


	2. Chapter 2

 The sunlight sneaks its way into Bucky’s bedroom through the haphazardly drawn drapes, signaling the start of a bright day. This time, when Bucky walks down the stairs and smells the melted butter, he already knows how he likes his pancakes and how the rest of the day is supposed to go. He knows Wanda is expecting coffee, he knows Natasha makes the best there is, and most importantly, he’s well aware that the low hum coming from the kitchen is Steve slaughtering a song. 

 The melody is vaguely familiar but probably off key, since Steve is famous for his tone deafness and Bucky can’t quite pinpoint the song. He slaps Steve’s thigh in greeting, making him snort out a laugh, and saunters to the kettle. The water is already blissfully hot. Bucky stirs coffee and sugar in his mug, breathes in the scent that speaks of home, and sips loudly enough to make a sound.

 Steve smiles at him, gentle and affectionate. He adds lyrics to his tune, a wavering, uncertain speak-singing. “ _The way you sip your tea..._ ”

 “Coffee,” Bucky says dryly. It’s a little early for 30s vintage songs. 

  _“They can’t take that away from me,”_ Steve keeps at it under his breath, flipping the pancake as he skips lyrics that he likely doesn’t remember. _“The way your smile just beams...”_

 He turns at Bucky, and grins at his scowl.

 “The way you sing off key,” Bucky supplies, the lyrics fitting.

 “ _The way you haunt my dreams,”_ Steve hums, setting the pancake on the plate and moving on to the next one. “ _Can’t take that away from me...”_

  _“The way you hold your_ pan.” There’s no _knife_ in sight as per the song, but Bucky can be flexible.

 Steve’s eyes light up in delighted surprise, and Bucky sees another Steve, shorter and thinner, in a smaller, dingier kitchen, humming along to a beat-up radio, his face somber as he tries his hand at pancakes. In the image, Bucky leans back watching him, arms folded and ankles crossed in vintage corduroy pants. He thinks the whole thing will end in a disaster, and with their diminishing food supply that would be less than ideal, but what Steve wants, Steve gets. Also, Steve is doing the clean-up.

 The kitchen in Bucky’s memories ascribes to a 30s aesthetic, because apparently Bucky’s mind is nothing if not consistent. He smirks, and doesn’t question what that kitchen actually looked like, the when or whys of the long-gone memory. Steve was shorter, so they were younger; the kitchen looked worse for wear, so it was before they joined the army. That should be enough.

  _“The way we danced till three,”_ they sing in discordant tandem, and Bucky is ever so slightly swaying his hips to the rhythm. _“The way you changed my life...”_  

 Steve sways too, as he moves around the half-baked pancake. His face has gone soft, his body moving to the tempo that’s only in their heads, and Bucky thinks, _What the hell_.

 He sets his mug down and grips Steve’s forearms, making him drop his spatula on the counter. He hums the tune under his breath and sways, taking Steve with him for the ride. Steve grins, carefree, no hesitation as he clumsily joins in on Bucky’s whim. He twirls when Bucky lifts their hands, and Bucky pulls him close. He touches Steve’s hips, tilting them gently, guiding him to the rhythm and humming into his ear. Steve laughs and Bucky falters, sidetracked; Steve picks up the tune, turns to twirl Bucky himself. It’s awkward, uncoordinated, Steve’s legs almost getting in the way of Bucky’s spin, and Bucky giggles –

 The pancake smells like smoke.

 “Aw, shit.” Steve drops Bucky’s hand and turns to the stove, valiantly attempting to save the burning dough, the pan, or maybe both.

 Bucky misses his warmth.

 “Shit.” Steve huffs out a groan and flips the burnt pancake into the sink.

 “Why don’t we sing anymore?” Bucky asks, a smile tugging at his lips as he leans against the counter.

 “Because we’re morons?” Steve suggests, pouring a fresh scoop of batter into the pan.

 “Feels like an oversight,” Bucky remarks.

 Steve stands vigilant over the fresh pancake and gives the batter a small prod. “I had the strangest dream,” he starts, his features hardening slightly.

 “Yeah?” Bucky says, eyes lingering a second too long on Steve’s arms. “Me too, night before last. Don’t remember any of it, but I woke up all...” He shrugs, grimacing. “Wonky.”

 “No, I remember mine,” Steve says, his brow furrowed. “There was... I saw Peggy –”

 Brown curls, red clothes; the picture materializes in Bucky’s mind like a long-forgotten memory as Steve speaks.

 “But she was lucid, not like the last times.”

 The image turns to white feathery hair and a face speckled with wrinkles. Of course; Peggy is old now.

 “And she looked desperate,” Steve continues, an edge to his voice. “And I asked why she was back –”

 Right, because Peggy’s passed away, Bucky notes.

 “And she was just yelling at me to _wake up, Captain, wake up_ ,” Steve finishes.

 Bucky licks his lips and ignores the reflexive stiffening of his muscles. _Captain._ He sees trenches, and rifles with wooden stocks way too old to be relevant. He rectifies the image till it amps up to contemporary standards, semi-automatic carbines with telescopic scopes, reliable and sturdy.

 “Well, it wasn’t _Peggy_ ,” he points out, reasonable despite the hairs rising on his neck. “It was a dream.”

 “Yeah, I know,” Steve says. “It was just strange. _Captain, wake up, Captain, you know you must,”_ he imitates in a voice higher than his own but not at all funny, his face grim.

 “And did you wake up?” Bucky asks.

 Steve scoffs a chuckle. “No.”

 “’Course not,” Bucky says, lightly kicking at Steve’s ankle. “’S just dreams.” 

 The air is heavy between them, and Bucky bristles. This kind of uneasiness will get them nowhere. He bites his lower lip, stands up straighter and tucks his hair behind his ears.

 “Hey,” he says, nodding towards Steve.

 Steve looks at him questioningly.

 “ _Pardon me, boy_ ,” Bucky says with an extravagantly suggestive smirk and wiggling eyebrows.

 Steve’s face cracks into a grin, approving of the theatrics, or maybe he just gets the reference – yet another 30s song that’s been out of fashion for ages and is frankly somewhat ridiculous.

  _“Is that...”_ Bucky tilts his head, feigning awed surprise. _“...The Chattanooga choo choo?_ ” he says in an out of tune, breathy voice.

 “Jesus _,_ ” Steve mutters, amused, making a silly face.

 Bucky takes a step forward. Steve holds out his palm to stop him.

 “Don’t make me burn another.”

 Bucky chuckles. The shadow passing over them gives way to the sunny kitchen, the smell of pancakes, and the cheerful twinkle in Steve’s eyes. Bucky retrieves his mug, barely concealing a self-congratulatory smirk. He gulps down coffee, chasing away the night, the dreams, the unwelcome strangeness of things he can’t explain.

 He gives Steve’s other thigh another playful slap. Steve blushes the softest shade of pink, and beams.

~

 Wanda’s kitchen is hot when Bucky steps in. The window, open wide, does little in the way of cooling down the room. Steam is coming out in heaps from the large pots resting on the stove, the bubbles on the clear liquid surface popping and gurgling audibly.

 “Quickly now, lots to do,” Wanda says, setting trays on the chairs with careless abandon, addressing Bucky or maybe just talking to herself.

 Small bottles of various shapes are crammed on the table, waiting to be filled with dark and light liquids. Half of the sink is filled with stark red strawberries plumping in water, the other half with oranges, and a small mountain of rhubarbs are piled up on the counter. It’s a mess for the ages, intimidating and overwhelming, but the cherry on top, the one thing Bucky cannot fathom the existence of are the lemons. They burst out of their sacks, pooling around on the floor. They’re enough to feed a small army, if an army could feed itself on only lemons.

 “What,” Bucky says helplessly.

 “Lots to do,” Wanda repeats, peering into the pots.

 Bucky just stands, staring at Whirlwind Wanda as she rummages for funnels and scissors and unearths colorful ribbons from the dark depths of her multiple drawers. She dumps knives and cutting boards on what empty spaces she can find, and Bucky just stares some more.

 She stops and gives him a sharp look, a pair of tongs in her hands. “What are you doing?”

 “What...” Bucky shakes his head. “What _am_ I doing?”

 “I don’t know, you’re just standing there. Do something.” She indicates – well, everything.

 “Liqueurs,” Bucky asserts.

 “Jams,” Wanda adds, replete with energy. “Jams, jams, jams.” She looks around, eyes stopping on the sink. “Strawberries. Hull them, halve them. Where’s the sugar? Fetch the sugar?”

 “Where’s –”

 “I think Thor left it in...” She huffs out impatiently, hands rising to her waist. “I think he may have left it outside.”

 “Thor?” Bucky asks, half-resigned to incomprehension.

 “Yes, he’s helping out.” Wanda stops, narrows her eyes as she catches up. “You didn’t know? Tomorrow, it’s Senior Outdoor Day. I thought you’d know, isn’t Steve coming along? Sam thinks he’s coming along.”

 “He – I don’t know,” Bucky says, rubbing his neck. “Where’s that happening?”

 “The park! Sam’s on activities duty, obviously, and all seniors up to it are invited. We’ll be selling jams and liqueurs, and giving out free lemonade.” She indicates the lemons. “Thor’s crop.”

 “As in _fresh_ lemonade?” Bucky asks, voice dangerously close to a whine. “We’ll be up at dawn!”

 “Yes, there’s lots to do,” Wanda agrees stoically. “And we’ll do it. We’ll be bringing the cups, the spoons,” she lists, counting on her fingers, “and – Don’t complain,” she admonishes at Bucky’s grouchy grimace.

 Bucky’s about to complain anyway, just to get it out of his system, but Wanda gives him her sweetest smile.

 “Help?”

 He suppresses a sigh and rolls up his sleeves.

 A coffee cup later, Bucky, one hoodie down, forehead glistening with sweat and his t-shirt too warm for his liking, finds himself pouring jam into jars. Wanda works on making more of it, damp hairs sticking to her forehead as she stands over the pot.

 “Make sure you clean off the rims,” she reminds him.

 Bucky seals the jars and brushes them aside. He licks the spatula off excess jam with the tip of his tongue, and tastes summer mornings and breezy afternoons; he finger-licks the pan itself once it cools.

 “How did you learn to make this?” he asks, impressed.

 “I...” Wanda frowns. The smile never quite leaves her face, but it becomes faint, feeble. “It was long ago. I had a lot of time to kill, and a lot of anger to burn through. I had to keep busy.” She looks confused as she continues, “I started with exotic fruits, so. It wasn’t here. I lived elsewhere back then.”

 “When?” Bucky leans on the counter. “Childhood?”

 Wanda opens her mouth, then closes it and shakes her head, troubled.

 “No, not childhood, that was... That was a different time. This, I learned a couple years ago. I was, uh. A guest. They treated me well. In – in... Wakanda?” she says, a question rather an assertion.

 Bucky’s left shoulder feels sore so he rolls it. “Wakanda? That’s –”

 “Too far away,” Wanda finishes for him, attention back to the pot. “I barely remember it anymore. I guess occasionally we block out the bad times and...  in doing so, we also erase the good things.”

 “Maybe,” Bucky says after a small pause.

 “But,” Wanda goes on, forcing herself to perk up, “I kept the good stuff!” She gestures to the jam.

 Bucky lets out a chuckle. “And the liqueurs?”

 Wanda looks at the containers on the table. “These? They take months to make. I don’t even remember making them!” she says with a laugh. “Do you?”

 Bucky shakes his head. He doesn’t remember being there in the first place.

 “I just found them in the shed. Thank God I labeled them ‘cause I’d have no idea what on earth they are,” Wanda says. “Amaretto, arancello and coffee.”

 Bucky stares at her.

 “I only understand the coffee part,” he says, making Wanda laugh again. “My heart started singing at the sound of it. We need more if we’re gonna put all that into bottles.”

 “With little ribbons, and bows, and handwritten labels on them,” Wanda reminds.

 Bucky tilts his head down dubiously. “Who’s _handwriting_ them?”

 Wanda’s smile is too mischievous for comfort.

~

 What feels like a million hours later, Bucky steps into the house sticky, tired, and smelling like fruit. He desperately needs a shower, but definitely not a bath involving bath bombs. He doesn’t need more scents on his skin.

 Steve looks up from his sketchpad when Bucky trudges into the kitchen, and smiles at him. Bucky grunts his exhaustion and drops two bags on the table, his loot for the day with Wanda’s blessing and encouragement. By the time he discovers the lasagna pot in the oven and blissfully salivates over it, Steve has unpacked the liqueur bottles, petit things with ribbons tied around their necks, and is examining the jars of jam.

 “Yes,” he whispers triumphantly. “Strawberry.”

 “Don’t,” Bucky whines, closing the oven door. He leans over Steve’s back and tiredly rests his chin on Steve’s shoulder, looking at the jars with disdain. “Let’s not talk about it. Any of it. So tired.”

 Steve huffs a chuckle and pats Bucky’s cheek, earning himself a pout.

 “It’s excellent though,” Bucky adds grumpily.

 Steve smiles. “I figured.”

 “You going to the outdoor event tomorrow?” Bucky mumbles.

 His position is uncomfortable, his words coming out minced, but Steve feels solid under him, and his familiar scent offsets every other scent still lingering on Bucky. He’s not going anywhere, not unprompted.

 “Of course,” Steve replies. “My friends will be there.”

 Bucky smiles. “Mrs. Bender?”

 “No, not Mrs. Bender,” Steve says regretfully. “She’s not big on walking these days. But I promised her we’d play cards soon.”

 “Mm,” Bucky hums.

 He closes his eyes, breathing in deeply. He could fall asleep right there and he wouldn’t mind, not too much, not until unconsciousness got the better of him and he flopped on the floor. Steve gently lifts his shoulder, nudging him off. Bucky groans.

 Steve turns minutely, as much as Bucky’s ingenious positioning allows.

 “Hey,” he says softly, lips brushing against the corner of Bucky’s mouth.

 Not boyfriend; but he could be.

 “Gonna shower,” Bucky mumbles as he straightens up. “Then food.”

 “I’ll be right here,” Steve assures, going back to his sketch.

 Only, it’s evolved into much more. It’s a full-fledged drawing now, nearly finished, and Bucky catches sight of a humanoid figure dressed in regal battle armor. His face is square, full of ridges and streaks, his mouth a long eerie line –

  _His face should be purple_ , an intrusive thought whispers in Bucky’s mind.

 The figure is wearing a gemmed gauntlet on his hand, one, two, three gems, four –

 Bucky’s stomach contracts painfully.

 Hunger pangs, he reasons. He clears his throat with unease, scratches his neck as he goes.

 Just hunger pangs.

~

 Bucky can assert with honesty that half his time making lemonade is time he spends partially asleep. He doesn’t remember most of his morning – possibly his mind is violently rejecting the preposterous idea of his waking up this early to squeeze lemons – but he has the proverbial scars to prove it in the form of very dry, very lemon-scented hands. He washes them with handcrafted soap that leaves traces of glitter on his skin. He tries shampoo and even attempts using conditioner while Wanda packs their merchandise, but the lemony scent persists. He’s convinced it’s part of who he is now.

 He stacks the box of liqueurs on top of the one of jams and has zero visibility as Wanda guides him by the elbow down the street. He only knows that they’ve reached the edge of the park by the ground giving way to grass and soil under his feet.

 Wanda greets Sam all smiles and sparkle, while Bucky grunts, the partial lack of spatial awareness making his muscles tense and his breathing tenser. In his peripheral vision, he catches sight of Peter Parker, the young photography wunderkind, stumbling backwards in an attempt to capture birds in flight.

 “Hey, man,” Sam greets, having the good sense to stand at Bucky’s side to do so.

 “Where do I set these?” Bucky grumbles, cheek almost mushed against the boxes.

 “Two steps straight, five to your left, your stall’s right there,” Sam instructs.

 Peter spots them and waves enthusiastically.

 “Wanda, Mr. Barnes!” he squeals, scrambling toward them. “Hi, hello! Good morning! Oh wow, hello, you’re – you’re so strong,” he marvels as Bucky sets the boxes on the ground. “Wow,” he repeats, gaping at the ‘jam’ and ‘liqueur’ labels in Wanda’s loopy handwriting, one ‘wow’ apparently not enough praise for Bucky’s physical prowess.

 Bucky wipes his brow.

 “So that’s you.” Sam gestures to the narrow wooden stall.

 “It’s perfect.” Wanda smiles, clasping her hands together. “We’re gonna get the lemonade.”

 “’Course we are,” Bucky mumbles.

 Once everything gets settled, the lemonade poured into cups and the jams and liqueurs set in order, Bucky has to admit it’s a pretty good setting. The spot offers optimal shade, with trees high enough to filter most of the glaring sunlight out without turning the place into a scene of gloom and doom. A picnic table supplies finger food, while Sam has arranged for games: a ring toss peg board stands on the grass, and a small collection of Velcro mitts and hacky sacks invites all and sundry to play a gentler version of catch. Not an activity coordinator for nothing, he has also taken the necessary safety precautions: Dr. Banner, the town’s go-to doctor, is lounging with his back against a tree, on call as he quietly reads his book.

 Wanda holds up a lemonade cup, nudging Bucky to pick one of his own.

 “To a successful day.”

 She raises her cup, and Bucky tips his head, his lips curling in a smile of agreement.

 Wanda scrunches her nose as the sourness hits her taste buds. She lets out a chortle and wipes her lips giddily as Bucky licks his own. He does a sweep of the park, checks that everything is in proper order. Sam is setting water bottles on the table, studiously ignoring Peter’s incessant photo-taking. Dr. Banner is still reading, oblivious to his surroundings.

 Bucky doesn’t know the doctor well, but the sight of him sitting on his own tugs at his heartstrings. He won’t intrude, not really; the man seems to want solitude and Bucky feels the sentiment. He grabs a cup of lemonade for him all the same. A lone wolf he might be, but Bucky feels the begrudging need to make him feel included.

 Dr. Banner looks up when Bucky approaches. He gives him a quiet smile as he props his glasses up against his nose.

 “Hello,” he says politely. “Mr. Barnes.”

 “Dr. Banner,” Bucky greets roughly. “Thought you might like some.”

 “Now isn’t that so kind,” Dr. Banner says, gratefully taking the cup. “Thank you.”

 Bucky just shrugs, maintaining the aloof façade that comes so naturally to him, lest anyone suspects him of being a softie. He turns to the stall, having fulfilled his personal quota of kindness for the day, but a pesky gray rock nags at his sense of safety and aesthetics. The jagged thing stands in the way of a sunbeam, like some celestial trouble magnet, secretly waiting for someone to trip on it and fall flat on their faces. It wouldn’t be fair, not for the seniors, not for Sam, who’s done his best to have everything be just right. Bucky crouches down and reaches out to retrieve it. The sunbeam hits warm against his skin, his left hand glimmering under the sunlight –

 His left hand glimmering silver under the sunlight –

 His fingers –

 “PHOTO OP!”

 Bucky snaps his head up at Peter’s voice. He sees Wanda instantly perk up and flash a smile, standing proud behind their stall. He’s been holding his breath and now he exhales, long and shaky as he looks back at his hand, fearing he’ll see metal tendrils running down his wrist.

 It’s just his hand; only skin over greenish veins, the soft hairs fuzzy as he pulls his sleeve and tentatively tests his forearm.

 Just a hand. He must’ve had sun spots in his eyes.

 “Mr. Barnes?”

 Dr. Banner is looking over with a frown between his eyebrows. The frown deepens significantly at the sight of Bucky, face pallid as he struggles with a wooziness that makes his knees wobble.

 “Everything all right, James?” Dr. Banner asks levelly.

 Bucky swallows, his mouth inexplicably dry. He brushes his palms against each other and stands up, ignoring the trembling in his legs.

 “Yeah, yeah,” he says as casually as he can muster, even though his voice comes out thin. “Just a rock.”

 He kicks it away, and doesn’t wait to see how far it lands.

~

 Sam begins the event with a session of tai chi. He ushers Steve away from Wanda, Bucky, and the spoonfuls of jam he’s been shoveling down, and assigns him to the back of the seniors’ group, a second pair of eyes to correct bad postures and help anyone in need.

 Dr. Banner raises his hands. “If anyone, at _any time_ ,” he says in a loud, clear voice, “is unable to perform the demonstrated movements, they should _not_ push themselves.”

 The seniors present are too excited to pay him any notice, lightly stretching or enthusiastically chatting among themselves. The doctor sighs a sigh from the bottom of his soul.

 “It’s cool, man, the exercises are easy,” Sam assures in a low voice. “Just for relaxation.”

 “Isn’t tai chi a martial art too, though?” Dr. Banner points out, squinting as he wipes his glasses on his shirt.

 “I know how to tell between the two,” Sam soothes. “Didn’t spend all this time learning it for nothing.”

 Dr. Banner doesn’t look any less concerned. Bucky assumes it’s his natural state of being.

 Sam demonstrates and the seniors follow. They breathe in and out, raise their hands as high as they get; they bend their knees and wave their arms, focused and serious. Steve looks respectfully bored and somewhat clumsy in his moves, as though he can’t quite get the hang of exercising serenity.

 Bucky finds the process peaceful.  He joins in before he realizes he’s doing so, moving gently, shyly even, even though no one pays him any attention.

 “Wrists out, up and back,” Sam is saying slowly. “Engage your legs. Bring your left leg forward... Circle, up and back. Don’t forget to breathe.”

 The group moves on, reversing the motion, and Bucky mimics them. He shifts, slowly brings forward his right leg as he concentrates. Steve catches sight of him and promptly starts to laugh, an inaudible guffaw that makes his whole body shake as he tries to suppress it.  

 Bucky disapprovingly ignores him.

 “Bring up your hands to form a ball in front of your face...” – Sam demonstrates – “Walk back and let your arms float down and apart...”

 Bucky does; Steve is openly snickering now. He’s stopped participating altogether, clasping his hands over his mouth as he tries to remain inconspicuous.

 He’s a heathen, is what he is. Bucky rolls his eyes and stalks toward him.

 “ _What_?!” he hisses, gesticulating his irritation.

 “I’m sorry,” Steve says, voice coming out muffled behind his palm.

 “I was doing a thing!” Bucky protests.

 “I’m so sorry,” Steve tries again.

 Bucky clicks his tongue, watching the seniors breathe in and out as per Sam’s guiding. “D’you think we’ll be like them when we’re their age? This engaged?” He cocks his head. “I’m barely engaged now, but –”

 He turns to Steve, his eyes rounding in annoyed disbelief. Steve looks ready to burst into laughter – _again_ – any second now.

 “Will you stop!”

 “I’m –”

 Steve shakes his head, failing to form words without dissolving into nervous giggles. He walks away instead, far enough so that the group won’t be distracted. Bucky follows him in a frustrated trot.

 “This is so inappropriate, I’m sorry,” Steve says, coming to lean against a tree. “It’s one of those things, you shouldn’t be laughing and then you can’t stop.”

 “Fuck off,” Bucky says, but without any heat.

 Steve huffs out a chuckle and brings his forearms on Bucky’s shoulders, hands leisurely swaying behind his back.

 “Yes, Buck,” he says, his eyes – impossibly blue and alluringly bright, dammit – intense and earnest on Bucky’s own. “We’ll be like that when we’re seventy. Or eighty. I promise I’ll drag you on excursions and events, no matter how much you complain. ‘Cause you _will_ complain. Okay?”

 Not a boyfriend; not strictly so; but he should be.

 Bucky swallows audibly.

 “But right now, it’s not my thing,” Steve says, squeezing Bucky’s shoulders. He pulls back and stretches, his t-shirt hitching up.

 “Yeah?” Bucky tries for teasing, barely managing to keep the quiver out of his voice. “What, you want something more active? Go climb a tree, you fucking monkey.”

 Steve raises his eyebrows with interest.

 “Please don’t climb a tree,” Bucky says hurriedly.

 Steve rolls his arms, shakes one leg and then the other. He jogs in place, the patter of his feet drowning in the soft ground.

 Bucky doesn’t even bother to suppress his sigh. “You’re so strung up.”

 “I miss working out,” Steve admits, pulling his leg behind his back, as high as it goes.  It _is_ pretty high.

 “It’s been a while,” Bucky agrees mildly; hell if he remembers how long.

 “I could go for a run,” Steve says, eyes flickering around the park as though he’s planning to do so right now.

 “Just don’t climb any trees,” Bucky replies distractedly, eyes back at the seniors.

 “I could do cartwheels. Cartwheels!” Steve exclaims, face lighting up at the prospect of the thrill – if cartwheels can be considered thrilling.

 The man has too much energy to burn and too few things to keep him occupied.

 “ _I_ can do cartwheels,” Bucky points out, because _it’s not that special_. They’re trained soldiers.

 But Steve is grinning in a challenge, and Bucky has a pride to nurse and a stubbornness that he can’t quite quell. He lets out a frustrated moan and spreads his legs, preparing to lunge and demonstrate.

 Steve doesn’t let him. He rushes at him, tackling him to the grass with a hearty chuckle, trying to pin him down or possibly climb _him_ like a tree. He stays on top for a few seconds, too short to count, and Bucky makes a half-hearted attempt to throw him off, when really, he’s just fine where he is, _thankyouverymuch_. Steve takes this for a win, his attempt to overpower Bucky a success, and scurries away, shoes scuffling on the grass and dirt, his laughter echoing as he goes.

 “You asshole!” Bucky shouts as he scrambles to his feet.

 Steve is hopping away with a shit-eating grin, placid because he can’t guess Bucky’s intentions. Bucky dashes at him and jumps, plastering himself on Steve’s back and draping his limbs all over him like a starfish sprawled on a rock. Steve yelps in surprise. Reflexes get the better of him and he reaches to support the back of Bucky’s knees.

 “Well, that’s comfortable,” he says dryly when Bucky settles, his legs dangling at Steve’s sides.

 “I’m pretty comfortable myself,” Bucky retorts. “Piggyback ride, punk. Payback time.”

 Steve gasps. “No!”

 “You sure did love to ride on my back when you were small,” Bucky reminds. An image of a grown-up Steve in a frame much smaller than his current one pops up in Bucky’s mind; his brain caught up on the _small_ part, sure, but apparently forgot to tone down the age. “Little. I mean.” He shakes his head, chin bumping on the side of Steve’s head.

 “A kid,” Steve supplies.

 “Yeah, you were smaller than me ‘s what I’m saying,” Bucky amends.

 Steve clicks his tongue and turns. He sobers considerably, but not enough, at the sight of Sam, his hands crossed as he glares at them with reproach. Steve straightens a little. Bucky kicks out his legs in embarrassed defiance. 

 “You done?” Sam calls.

 Steve side-glances at Bucky as best as he can.

 “Eh,” Bucky calls back noncommittally. “If you insist.”

~

 The seniors meander, strolling and chatting, eating lunch and playing games. Peter takes pictures as if his life depends on it, climbing on chairs or bending so low that the back of his head touches his heels to get a better angle – _and how the hell can he do that_ , Bucky wonders, as he chews on a cheesy breadstick. Wanda animatedly talks to Dr. Banner, but the good doctor is only half-listening, eyeing Mrs. Leong and the lovely lady in pink sweats whose name Bucky doesn’t know tasting one liqueur after another and giggling to each other.

 Steve is on pick-up duty. He hovers around the peg board gathering rings and idly keeping an eye out for stray hacky sacks, relieving the seniors of unnecessary exertion. Bucky grabs two finger sandwiches and ambles up to him.

 Steve sighs with relief as he smells the cucumber and mayo. “Thanks.” He pushes his piece into his mouth, his expression blissful as he chews.

 Bucky raises his eyebrows. “Wanna take mine? Here, take mine,” he says, shoving the sandwich into Steve’s mouth.

 Steve accepts it unresisting, no comeback or banter; boy, he must be hungry.

 “Want some more?”

 “’M good,” Steve says, his words garbled by his munching. He grabs a hacky sack and lightly tosses it back to the gamers. “Velcro mitts,” he adds appreciatively. “None of that bouncing ball business. So convenient for those who can’t jump around.” He shakes his head. “So helpful.”

 Bucky snorts. “Watch it there, you’re turning into an old man. _New doodats, so helpful,_ ” he says, his voice cracking in an awful imitation of elderly citizens.

 A happy trio cheers as they finish their game and move to the picnic table. Steve starts retrieving rings from the ground, slipping them over his forearm like bracelets made for giants. Bucky joins him. He bends down to take rings off their peg, and doesn’t miss the frown on Steve’s brow.

 “Listen, I –” Steve stops at the unexpected flash of camera. He squints, then blinks the light out of his eyes.

 It’s Peter, of course. Bucky scowls, but Peter just gives a friendly if slightly embarrassed wave.

 “Sorry, Mr. Rogers, Mr. Barnes. Gotta document everything.”

 He takes another picture for good measure.

 “Don’t you have school?” Bucky asks gruffly.

 “No, seriously, got to document _everything_ ,” Peter stresses nervously. “T’Challa wants an article on this for the weekly newspaper, and when the editor asks –”

 “The editor taketh,” Steve finishes with a begrudging smile.

 “Right,” Peter says. “And I’ve got to get everything edited quickly, right, ‘cause Ned might drop by, or MJ, and we’ve things to do –”He halts, suddenly, staring ahead of him as though he’s seeing ghosts.

 Steve breaks the silence. “Who?”

 Peter gapes for a second, then shakes his head. “I don’t know why I said that,” he says quickly. “I don’t know why I said that, forget I said it, they’re safe, they’re not here.” He hoists his camera.

  “...Who?” Steve repeats.

 “They’re away,” Peter clarifies, snapping a picture, and then another.

 Bucky steals a glance at Steve and briefly contemplates turning his back, not quite willing to be in newspaper photo archives. Salvation comes, in the form of tipsy ladies. Peter is distracted by a very giggly Mrs. Leong and her chirpy friend, whose post-liqueur-tasting cheeks are infinitely ruddier.

 “Peter!” Mrs. Leong says in a sing-song voice, steering him away with a hand on his back. “Come take a picture of this lovely bird, it’s such a lovely bird –”

 “Blue specks and green tail,” her friend says, eyes glinting as she hurries them away. “Not as lovely as herons. But still lovely.”

 “Not as a h– but –”

 Bucky glances at Dr. Banner. Unsurprisingly, he’s rubbing his face warily, looking like the exact kind of person who’s destined to grow old before his time.

 “I had the same damn dream again,” Steve says in an undertone.

 It gets Bucky’s attention. “Peggy?”

 “ _Think, Captain, it’s all wrong_ , _use your goddamn brain, goddammit_ ,” Steve recites in a troubled monotone.

 “ _Captain_ again,” Bucky says, his voice cheerless. “You’d think we’d left all that behind.”

 He can’t remember why, exactly, the reason backing their decision to keep their military service on the down-low. It was so long ago that the once sharp edges of the battle trauma are now somewhat blunt. He _could_ remember it if he tried hard enough, the dirt, the fear and the blood; he could if he prodded, but the fuzziness of it allows for a certain peace. They did a few tours, here, there, elsewhere, a few months ago, or a year, or maybe ten. It doesn’t matter; it shouldn’t matter. It is what it is.

 “Left what behind?”

 Bucky jolts at Natasha’s voice, and Steve properly jumps, head whipping around in a startled glare.

 “Jesus,” he mutters darkly.

 Natasha regards them coolly, munching on a breadstick.

 “Where did you come from?” Bucky gripes.

 “What’re you talking about?” Natasha arches an eyebrow.

 “Jesus, you’re quiet,” Steve says breathlessly.

 “I seriously don’t know what you’re talking about.” Natasha looks around, hands on her waist as she surveys the set-up. “Looks adequate.”

 Steve snorts. “Now that’s a compliment.”

 She shrugs. “Had to check it out, see what the fuss was about. Thor ordered two coffees this morning, both of them for him, because and I quote, he had to do his duty to his fellow citizens.” She flicks her hair back, tying it into a ponytail. “Are you going to the barbeque on Friday?”

 “What barbeque?” Steve asks.

 “It’s not a thing yet? Perks of serving everyone’s coffee, I get the news early,” Natasha says. “T’Challa’s house. I’m sure you’re invited.”

 “Are you going?” Steve asks.

 “Working,” she reminds. “I reserve my days off for something more interesting than a barbeque.” She shakes her head. “I’m off. I left Scott in charge. For all I know, he might destroy the place.”

 “You should try the liqueurs,” Bucky suggests.

 Natasha scoffs. “Please. I drink pure vodka, I don’t care about liqueurs.”

 She purchases three bottles all the same.

~

 Steve and Bucky help Wanda carry the leftovers to her house and are gifted with bottles of lemonade. They walk back home in silence, the dwindling light of the sun pleasantly warm, the horizon a swirl of reds and purples that blend and melt into each other, a watercolor painting on a canvas full of sky. Bucky deems it lucky that he’s the one holding the bottles, otherwise he’d be tempted to hold Steve’s hand instead.

 They turn the corner to their block, and Bucky swallows down a sigh. Stark is tending at his garden, as he usually does when he’s not otherwise busy. He’s trimming a rose bush when he spots them – and glares.

 Really, Bucky should be immune to it by now.

 Thankfully, Rhodes is with him this time, lounging on a striped deckchair by Stark’s front door, sunglasses on and a glass filled with red at hand. Rhodes knows; Rhodes cares.

 “Afternoon, guys!” Rhodes calls, springing to his feet to greet, be nice like anyone who aspires to be a good neighbor.

 Stark, who – not too much unlike Bucky, if Bucky is honest – couldn’t care less about being a good neighbor, grunts. It doesn’t _look_ like a loud grunt, hunched as he is over his roses, but it must be, because it reaches Bucky’s ears and offends his sensibilities.

 “Afternoon!” Steve waves back amiably.

 “Tony, greet the good men,” Rhodes murmurs.

 Stark mumbles vowels that don’t form words.

 Bucky sighs, audibly this time. “You know what?” he says to no one in particular. He steels himself and struts toward Stark’s garden, his strides quick lest he changes his mind.

 Stark’s eyes widen. Bucky is pretty sure the man considers throwing the shears against him. Either that, or he’s about to bolt.

 “Here,” Bucky says brusquely, thrusting a lemonade bottle toward him. “Fresh. Enjoy.”

 “Barnes,” Stark grits out, eyes hard and knuckles white as he grips the shears tighter.

 Bucky isn’t sure if it’s a reluctant greeting or an earnest warning. He turns to Rhodes instead.

 “Here,” he repeats, passing him the bottle. “Enjoy.”

 He hears Stark’s hushed “What the hell” as he leaves.

 Steve stares at him with puzzled eyes, and Bucky shrugs.

 “I tried.”


	3. Chapter 3

 Bucky does not take any pride in his outgoing nature or his communicative skills, simply because he lacks in both. Thus, when the invitation to T’Challa’s barbecue arrives, an elegant thing on crème paper in gilded lettering addressed to _“Mr. James Barnes & Mr. Steve Rogers”,_ Bucky readily assumes that _he_ is invited on merit of Steve’s good standing in the community, rather than for any social graces of his own. Nonetheless, it’s a gathering of people he’s already acquainted with and doesn’t see the harm in going. He even entertains the idea that it might actually be fun.

 Friday evening finds Steve and Bucky walking to the very edge of town, to T’Challa’s fancy house, with a hopefully good wine at hand. It turns out the back garden, where the barbeque is held, is bigger than the house itself, with lush plants, neatly trimmed grass and pathways made out of sleek stones that shimmer under the dim amber lights. The guest list is inclusive enough to call for two grill stands and a buffet table, and more drinks than the town’s bar probably owns. The stone-covered patio even features a fire pit. The heat is low enough to not disturb the mellow atmosphere, but s’mores tools and ingredients accommodate the people who feel like campfire-ing it up.

 It’s luxurious and welcoming, a good way to spend an evening. Bucky scouts the place and marks the coordinates of familiar faces. Steve squeezes his arm and wanders off to mingle. Bucky, who doesn’t quite do that these days, heads straight for Clint at the very back of the garden. The lights are even dimmer here, casting shadows over Clint’s face. He is sprawled on the grass, his back against a fake rock as he throws a stick at a dog that’s too lazy to play fetch.

 Clint prods the dog with his foot. The dog ignores him.

 “Hey,” Bucky greets, plopping down to Clint’s side.

 “He-ey!” Clint reaches out and rubs Bucky’s neck.

 “Pizza Dog?”

 “Pizza Dog,” Clint affirms affectionately, petting the dog’s patchy fur. “Only dog I’d dare bring to a barbeque – he won’t go for your meat, he just craves the pizza.”

 “You should add this in his adoption papers,” Bucky says, lips curling in a trace of a smile.

 “Nah.” Clint gives Pizza Dog one last pat. “Not offering up this one. I’m keeping him.”

 “He’s lucky,” Bucky remarks.

 Clint leans further back on the rock. He tilts his head and gazes at the sky, the canopy of stars distant and iridescent. The chatter of the guests and the sizzling of the grill stations is a low buzz, a background noise too tame to be stifling.

 “Hey,” Clint eventually says to Pizza Dog. “Go fetch that stick. Play along, will ya?”

 Pizza Dog gives him a long-suffering look, but deigns to humor his human. He slowly gets to his feet and ambles to the stick, bringing it back to drop on Clint’s lap. He flops down again, tail idly sweeping the grass.

 “That’s it? You wanna fetch another?” Clint prods the dog eagerly.

 The dog rests his head on Bucky’s knee, all but sneering at Clint’s suggestion.

 “Eh,” Clint says. “You’ve no love for your old man.”

 “He’s smart,” Bucky says, running his hand over Pizza Dog’s muzzle. “Knows his ‘old man’ might take someone’s eye out if he keeps throwing sticks around.”

 Clint straightens up, his face a picture of outrage. “Excuse you! My aim is excellent!”

 “Sure,” Bucky says with a small smirk.

 “’ _Sure’_ ,” Clint screeches mockingly, twisting his lips in displeasure. “Dare me. Dare me, I dare you!”

 Bucky lets out a startled laugh. “What the hell?”

 “Give me a target. That lady there? With the purple dress? She’s a good target, I don’t like her. No?” he says at Bucky’s huff. “That guy, then? Who d’you want?”

  “No one,” Bucky says, lightly scratching Pizza Dog’s ear. “They’re T’Challa’s guests. We barely know the guy. Doesn’t make for good impressions.”

 Clint lifts his shoulders. “You could dare me to _not_ hit anyone, aim for their feet, or –”

 “You’d miss,” Bucky says, more to tease him rather than out of true conviction.

 “Would not.” Clint tosses the stick in the air and catches it in his palm as though to hone in his point.

 Bucky scoffs. “I could do you better anyway,” he says with tired confidence.

 “I so doubt –”

 “I was in the army, pal,” Bucky reminds him.

 “Don’t mean nothing,” Clint insists. “You might be good, I’ll give you that, but not as good as me. I’ll play you some day, come by the shelter. For _now_ , let’s say we’re both good. I’m better – but we’re both good. A-plus material.” He bumps his shoulder against Bucky’s. “Mad skills.”

 Bucky breathes out a chuckle. “Kinda useless for this kind of life.”

 “What, _real_ life?” Clint makes a dismissive sound, waving his hand. “Fuck real life, man. We’re like superheroes! We could take out heinous, nefarious forces with one shot, a knife aimed right or a bow and – and –”

 He stutters to an awkward halt.

 Bucky’s heart starts racing. He blinks repeatedly, mechanically, until he can find a suitable response.

 Clint gives out a feeble laugh. “A bow and arrow,” he says, brushing back his hair. “What a strange...” He clears his throat.

 “It’s – it’s unusual,” Bucky agrees, through the cold anxiety flooding his veins.

 “How awesome though, yeah?” Clint says subdued, dragging Pizza Dog close to his chest. “Maybe, you know, maybe if there was a war, or...”

 “No wars,” Bucky says, shifting with unease.

 He sees a flash of metal on his left hand. He blinks until it’s gone, another trick of the light.

 “But if we had to,” Clint presses, “like, if we needed to fight, for whatever reason, like in that last war, the recent one, the...” He frowns, trying to remember history.

 “The one, yeah, the –” Bucky attempts to help out, fumbling with his own apparently useless retaining of current affairs – “the one where we fought against the army, from the – what country was it...”

 “Intergalactic...?” Clint says, uncertain. “With the blue and purple – th – the purple –”

 He stops and stares at Bucky, eyes shining with alarm. Bucky’s heart drops; Steve was drawing purple aliens –

 Steve –

 Clint barks out an awkward laugh, harsh and exaggerated, effective in dissolving the sudden tension. Bucky puffs out a breath, strangled and relieved at once. He chuckles once, then again as he looks at Clint. They melt into a fit of laughter, hysterical and high-pitched, unwarranted and out of place.

 “Oh man,” Clint manages between sniffles. “I talk drunk and I haven’t even had a drink yet.”

 “Just goes to show,” Bucky says in mock disdain, “you don’t even know your own history. Your _species’_ history, Barton, you’re bringing aliens into this!”

 A _purple_ alien, his mind supplies. _With a helmet, and a gauntlet and the gems –_

 “Or,” Clint says, considerably paler than a few minutes ago, “I’m a cinema buff.”

 “Ha!” Bucky exclaims jarringly, heart filling with something close to hope. That’s why they all think of the same aliens, him, Clint, Steve. Must be part of a movie, watched long ago.

 He thinks he sees a glint on his left hand.

 He blinks until it’s gone.

 “Hey,” Clint says, “let’s go make some s’mores.”

 Bucky shakes the jumbled thoughts out of his head and gets to his feet. S’mores suddenly feel like a lifeline, the last remaining thread to sanity. A strange thread, but a thread all the same. S’mores sound good.

 Steve is mid-conversation with T’Challa when Bucky heads his way. T’Challa nurses a glass of wine, nodding with interest as Steve gesticulates his words. Bucky slides quietly beside Steve, catching the last of his speech, a case for community involvement from the few teenagers in town. The only teenager that Bucky can think of is Peter, but he keeps that thought to himself. There must be more.

 Steve finishes his sentence and acknowledges Bucky with a warm smile, rubbing his palm up Bucky’s back. Bucky swallows down a bubbly sound, and instead collects himself to a fond grimace.

 “Hi,” he greets T’Challa.

 “James.” T’Challa smiles his measured, earnest smile, eyes crinkling at the corners.

 “ _James_ ,” Clint mocks ceremoniously, slipping beside Bucky and handing him a beer bottle. “We’re making s’mores,” he announces, grabbing Bucky’s arm and tugging him away, dragging him the few steps to the patio. “You’re welcome to join.”

 “I see you’re enjoying the evening,” T’Challa says, amused.

 “Loving the evening!” Clint calls, back turned as he raises his beer in a salute.

 “Jesus,” Bucky mutters. “He’s the _host_.”

 “And what a great host he is,” Clint agrees, fishing for skewers.

 Bucky sloshes his beer, the fire from the pit warming his cheeks as Clint turns up the heat. He looks up and catches Stark, a latecomer, eyeing Steve appraisingly. Clint mumbles as he thrusts a marshmallow over the pit, and Bucky loses himself in the low murmurs of the guests. It’s comforting, being part of something without having to participate. He watches the marshmallow roast and darken, watches Clint juggle skewer, chocolate and graham crackers as he skillfully shapes everything into a sandwich. He devours it immediately, humming his approval.

 “Want one?”

 Bucky shakes his head and takes a sip of beer. Clint shrugs and continues, undeterred. Bucky catches Steve’s eye, smiles back when Steve smiles first.

 T’Challa moves to his other guests. Steve has hardly time to breathe before Stark ambushes him, hands balled into fists, his mouth set in a determined line. Bucky averts his eyes, stares at his beer in an attempt to be discreet, but Steve’s wariness at Stark’s appearance is hard to miss. There’s camaraderie between them, Steve and Stark, one that Steve can’t really see, no matter how clear it is to Bucky. It’s the camaraderie of people who don’t necessarily get along, but are both brilliant in their own ways; beacons of sorts on their own turfs, who can’t help but orbit each other. It’s the camaraderie of equals, where Bucky feels _less than_. He takes a small sip, the taste suddenly unpleasant.

 He tries to look away, but he can still hear Stark. He can hear him shuffle his feet, brittle – can hear his _feet_ , for fuck’s sake, under the conversations and the low music, and that’s just strange. Unsettling. Bucky mimics the movement, shifts his weight from one unsteady foot to the other. His skin itches. It feels like a strange thing, ill-fitting, and a perverse part of him, a part that scares him, irrationally thinks of crawling out of it. He half-turns, his eyes on Stark and Steve. It’s better to pair sight with hearing, or so he finds. That, at least, makes his improbably good hearing less unnerving.

 “So, Rogers, listen, I... ” Stark rubs his hand over his mouth. “I can’t stand you,” he begins curtly.

 Steve’s shoulders stiffen where Stark’s slouch in defeat.

 “But I respect you. Occasionally I even like you a little, in that weird, disturbing way you tip your hat to someone who otherwise annoys you with everything they’ve got.”

 “But why d–” Steve tries, but Tony waves a dismissive hand.

 “Point is. I feel you’re the only one I can trust with this, the only one who’d – who’d understand.” He takes a deep breath, bracing himself. “There’s something.  There’s something very wrong about this. Here, now. All of this.”

 Bucky’s stomach makes an unpleasant somersault. What drives him straight to nausea though is the insincerity, the forced incomprehension in Steve’s tone when he says in a voice far from natural, “The barbecue?”

 “Don’t play dumb, Rogers, I know you’re not,” Stark snaps, almost disgusted. “This is wrong. Something’s changed, something’s – it’s as if – it’s as if this never existed, it’s as if we – how did we _get_ here?”

 “It’s – it’s home,” Steve says uncertainly, and Bucky feels something when he hears the word in Steve’s voice, a deep-seated –

  – _longing,_ his brain provides.

 A longing that has nothing to do with this place, or the house they live in, a longing –

 The word incomprehensibly makes him pant, his breaths short and uneasy. The chatter in the garden, previously a pleasant distraction, now becomes loud, intrusive in his ears. He tries to ground himself with something, anything.

 “Is it?” Stark asks fervently. “Because I damn well don’t feel like it, I feel like I invented half of it –”

 “Tony,” Steve tries, voice even as he reaches out, but doesn’t touch.

 Bucky’s eyes fall on the nearest grill stand. He studies it, uses it as a tether to what’s real, here and now. The gridiron, the black paint almost chipping, the legs –

 “I feel like half of it didn’t exist a month ago, a _week_ ago,” Stark whispers urgently. “Like it just appeared, it just came to be.”

 The stand’s legs are _rusted_.

 ржaвый.

 Bucky’s fingers tighten around the bottle. He tastes rubber, iron and blood.

 “Tony, you’ve lived here your whole life,” Steve says.

 “I have, yeah, I have,” Stark agrees. “I repair cars. I garden things.”

 “Yes,” Steve says, using his Captain’s voice.

  _Why is he using his Captain’s voice._

 “I had other dreams when I was fifteen, seventeen –”

 Семнадцать, _seventeen_. Nineteen seventeen.

 The garden spins, and a little boy is blowing out candles, celebrating his third birthday because he was born in 1917. But Bucky couldn’t possibly know that, Bucky wouldn’t –

 “But then I had to stay here, so _why_ –” Stark pokes his finger on Steve’s chest– “ _why_ do I suddenly find myself knowing quantum physics and gamma rays if I’ve never seen them in my life, why do I know how to create artificial intelligence –”

  _Just A Rather Very Intelligent System_ –

 “– when at most what I’ve been exposed to in my life _here_ is a smart oven or a multi-functional fridge –”

 “Tony!” Steve exclaims. “You’re a very intelligent, very skilled man who doesn’t know what to do with his own genius and you just... You don’t know what to do with yourself, you overexert yourself, you stay up till daybreak –”

 Рассвет.

 Something feral stirs in Bucky’s chest.

 “– thinking up things that – that –”

 “That _what?_ ” Stark almost shouts.

 “That can’t exist,” Steve finishes quietly.

 “I’m not crazy.”

 Bucky’s limbs turn heavy, his nerves twitching violently as impossible fears overcome him; he is rooted to the spot, he will turn into stone, crumble down once smashed. He looks at the fire in the pit, high now, red, blazing like a furnace –

 A _Печь_ –

 He’s going to throw up. There’s a bubble of bile, and it’s bobbing up and down. He’s either getting rid of it or he will choke, gurgle until he can’t breathe. His chest tightens.

 “I am _not_ crazy,” Stark insists vehemently. “I just found a glitch. It’s glitching, this thing, whatever it is, and you can keep playing up this little fantasy, you keep living the life, but I can see it – I see you, Rogers. You’re scared.”

 “Of what,” Steve asks, his voice quavering.

 Visions of shadows, of white coats and metal are swimming in front of Bucky’s eyes.

 “All of _this_ , disappearing right before your eyes,” Stark says scathingly. “To what it was, the whole nine yards –”

  _Девять._

 “What _was_ it,” Steve grits out.

 “I _don’t remember!_ ” Stark exclaims desperately.

 “My friends!” a voice booms.

 A hand grabs Bucky’s shoulder, strong and unrelenting. Bucky snaps, almost breaks into a scream.

 He doesn’t want to be taken.

 The beer bottle shatters in his grip. He spins, right fist coming up to land on the attacker’s jaw. He calculates wrong, the impact minimal, the target jumping back quick, but he must try –

 “Holy shit!” Clint yelps.

 Bucky comes to. His eyes grow wide as he sees Thor, _registers_ Thor in his resplendent glory, the receiver of Bucky’s panic-fueled tour de force. A minute ago he wasn’t looking, he wasn’t _seeing_ – 

 His mouth snaps open in a horrified apology, but Thor is laughing, and Clint is gaping, and Steve –

 Steve is at his side.

 He grabs Bucky’s left hand, squeezes it gently as he touches Thor. He examines the man’s face for damage, his frown softening when he doesn’t find any.

 “What happened?” he asks.

 “My deepest apologies,” Thor says, earnest and miraculously unscathed.

  “ _Your_ apologies?!” Clint asks aghast, s’more melting down his fingers.

 Thor rests a steadying hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “I startled you, my friend, I apologize.”

 Bucky forces himself to look at Thor. He doesn’t _appear_ hurt, but he doesn’t have Bucky to thank for that; his lucky stars, maybe, or his reflexes, but certainly not Bucky. The thought sends a fresh shiver down Bucky’s spine.

 Steve examines Bucky’s hand, holding it close. He brushes away glass fragments, but there’s no injury underneath.

 “I should know that soldiers don’t take well to being blindsided. I deeply regret the action, I hope it will not be a hurdle to our friendship,” Thor says, in a much kinder manner than Bucky thinks he deserves.

 Steve tugs gently at his hand. “Buck. You okay?”

 “Did I hurt you?” Bucky asks in a thin voice.

 “Of course not!” Thor replies jovially, spreading his arms. “Asgard raises toughened children, a mere graze can do me little harm.”

 “That your mother?” Clint inquires.

 Thor laughs easily. “My homeland, my friend! I might have left it all, the glory, the mischief and the battle, retired to a simple, human life, but the gifts of our kingdom remain with me, always.”

 “A kingdom?” Clint mouths.

 Thor squeezes Bucky’s shoulder, smiling softly. “Please,” he says. “It was my own fault. Let us forget the unfortunate moment and enjoy our night.” He straightens, grinning as he pats Steve’s neck. “I am summoned by the enticing smell of meat. Come join me.” He makes his way to the grill station, greeting as he goes.  

 Clint whistles in awe. “Man. I wish all _my_ fights ended like that.”

 “Since when do _you_ fight?” Stark – and Bucky has no idea when he became part of this little spectacle, but here he is – says suspiciously, crossing his arms.

 Clint stumbles on an answer he doesn’t give, and turns to the s’mores awkwardly. “Don’t mind me, I’m just spewing words.”

 Steve clears his throat and gently guides Bucky to a quiet corner. His timing is good, too; Bucky catches some curious glances coming his way from rightly confused guests. He lets out a shuddering breath, raising his hands on his hips as he tries to compose himself.

 “What happened?” Steve asks quietly.

 “I don’t...” Bucky shakes his head. “I don’t know. I panicked.”

 “Shell shock?” Steve asks.

 Puzzle pieces come to lock together at the words, but the context doesn’t make sense. The context spells World War II. The context spells 30s and 40s and military PTSD, and Steve is so out of time, and so out of place –

 Steve, Bucky realizes, might just be as confused as Bucky is.

 The context doesn’t make sense, but the situation fits.

 “Not as bad,” Bucky says.

 Steve nods. “It’s okay. We’ll be okay.”

 Bucky echoes the nod, once, twice, hysterically too many times until maybe he can make himself believe it.

 “What do you need?”

 “I’ll just go home,” Bucky says.

 Steve doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ll come with.”

 “I’m fine,” Bucky manages, drudging up a half-smile. “I’ll walk back, shake it off.”

 Steve studies him closely. Bucky knows he won’t push.

~

 Bucky takes the long way home, trying to piece the fragments of his thoughts into a cohesive structure. He might as well be trying to herd a bunch of cats with no desire to be herded, memories and fantasies and things that cannot be flitting in and out of his consciousness until his head hurts. He breathes deeply until his lungs fill with the chilly night air and his heart rate returns to healthy normalcy.

 He only half remembers Stark’s words. The spied-on conversation is already fading, even though bits and bobs of it attempt to come into the forefront, demanding to be heard.

 He only half remembers Stark’s words, but the recollection of his wild-eyed look gives him goose bumps.

 Stark talked about a home, his, theirs or someone else’s. Bucky knows with certainty that home is where the heart is, so home is Steve.

  _And that’s about it._ This town could be any old town, or no town, it could be a place in a book once read, or a planet in outer space. Bucky doesn’t remember settling here. He doesn’t remember buying the house, only knows that it happened; doesn’t remember choosing bedrooms, decorating, but knows who chose what and which plates were acquired just because Steve persisted, even though they’re borderline tasteless.

 He doesn’t remember many things. He doesn’t remember what lies immediately outside this place, although he remembers New York and Brooklyn, the capital of Romania and obscure cities of the East.

 But that’s the shell shock. The PTSD, remnant from his military days. Stark has it wrong.

 Stark _must_ have it wrong.

 Bucky drags his feet and turns the corner, spotting Natasha a few feet ahead. She’s locking up the bakery, her shift over for the night. Bucky keeps his distance, too spent to interact with anyone, much less someone as eerily astute and ruthless as Natasha.

 In the cold light of the lampposts, he makes out two shadows, sturdy men he doesn’t recognize. They detach from the darkness, creep towards Natasha; Bucky stiffens as he readies for a fight.

 The two men flank Natasha on both sides. The bulkier one whips out a switchblade. Bucky lets out a low growl and prepares to pounce.

 He doesn’t need to.

 “Come on, sweetheart.” The taller man grabs Natasha’s wrist.

 Natasha’s not having it. The scene shifts, the roles reverse. Natasha yanks her arm, hard and fast. The man loses his footing and stumbles forward. She rolls, fast and unsettlingly agile, brings her elbow against the bulky man’s throat, leaving him breathless. She holds down his wrists, knocking the switchblade out of his hand with a punishing kick, ducks just in time when the tall man moves to grab her from behind. She rolls away, red hair flying behind her as she goes, and is up and standing with a jump, straightening her clothes and cracking her neck. She doesn’t look scared, not even angry; she’s simply determined.

 The sight is strange, and eerily familiar.

 Natasha lunges at the taller man, wraps her legs around his neck, holds his head in place as he struggles. Bucky takes a reflexive step backwards, feeling the weight of Natasha on his own shoulders, even though she was never there. Natasha slams her forehead into the man’s and he yowls, a wailing sound like the howling of a cat. He clutches at his head as Natasha jumps off and rounds on her other assailant. Terrified, he raises his hands, palms out in a gesture of surrender, but Natasha is unforgiving. She raises her leg, kicks at the man’s groin while taking hold of his wrist, twisting as he falls to his knees with a scream. She keeps on twisting until the man blabbers “Please” and “Stop”, his partner not even attempting to help out. Natasha spins, grabs the taller man’s head and smacks it on a lamppost. He falls.

 Natasha surveys her accomplishments, the two men writhing and whimpering at her feet. She’s panting, but only a little. Her eyes narrow, head cocked to her side as though she doesn’t quite know how she did this.

 “дебилы,” she murmurs disdainfully.

  _Morons_ , Bucky’s brain provides.

 Bucky did not know Russian before this night.

 Natasha was not a damn ninja who also knows Russian before this night.

 Bucky swallows hard, fists clenching at his sides.

 Natasha looks up. Her eyes lock on Bucky’s, and he holds his breath. Her gaze emanates fire; his own, steely defiance.  Something unspoken passes between them, a quiet agreement to not acknowledge the proceedings of the night. Natasha’s shoulders drop and Bucky uncoils his fists, a whirring metallic sound echoing in his ears.

 Natasha spins around and walks away. Bucky turns and takes a shortcut home.

~

 The night’s adrenaline leaves Bucky cold and bone-weary. He closes the front door behind him and drops his key on the end table. The light from the kitchen, always on even when no one is around, spills out into the living room, dispelling things that might be lurking in the darkness. Bucky shrugs off his jacket, hangs it on the rack hook next to Steve’s.

 Natasha is a ninja.

 He scrubs his face, biting down a moan.

 He knows Russian.

 He rests his head against the wall, softly thumps his forehead against the cool surface.

 He knows how Natasha feels when she bolts onto someone’s shoulders. He feels a garrote against his trachea, pushing in, cutting –

 “Buck?”

 Bucky jerks his head, startled. He follows Steve’s voice into the kitchen, finds him leafing through a magazine. He sits straighter when Bucky enters, successfully managing to conceal most of his worry.

 Bucky goes loose at the sight of him, the strings that have been holding him together untying, giving way to Steve and the softness in his eyes. He drags a chair opposite Steve’s own and sits down heavily. He’s shivering, knees trembling and teeth almost chattering as he manages, “I thought you were at T’Challa’s.”

 Steve leans in, close, closer, forearms resting on his legs.

 “I didn’t want you to be alone,” he says simply. “Rhodey drove me back. What’s up?” He rubs a small comforting circle on Bucky’s knee. “What happened? Was it Tony? ‘Cause the things he said, I –”

 He stops, and Bucky sees it, sees he can’t say that they’re not quite true, can’t quite rebuff them, but Bucky doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about Stark or Natasha right now. Bucky looks at Steve, gazes _,_ finds in him a lifetime of Steves, centuries of Steve and Bucky, and he’s flooded with relief that nearly aches. It knocks the breath out of him, numbs him, humbles him. Steve is _here_ , Steve chooses _him_ , and Bucky doesn’t want to talk about this strange night. He yearns to melt into Steve’s arms, allow himself to be comforted. It feels so long, years, even decades since they shared a hug, but it couldn’t be, it cannot be, they’ve been living together for –

 Christssake, for how long –

 “Buck?”

 “Can I...”

 Bucky clears his throat and opens his arms awkwardly, the gesture rusty as he waits for permission. Steve leans in, unhesitant, and wraps his arms around Bucky’s shoulders as best he can, their knees knocking against each other. Bucky shifts, opens his legs so that Steve can scoot in closer. His hands are warm and solid on Bucky’s back, and Bucky can smell Steve’s shampoo, honeyed and clean, can feel Steve’s scruff roughing up the side of his nose. He’s still not close enough, and Bucky is just about enough out of his mind to shuffle forward, latch onto Steve and climb onto his lap, thighs resting on thighs as Bucky buries his nose in Steve’s neck. Steve holds him tighter, his chin hard on the crook of Bucky’s shoulder, his chest rising and falling in soothing bobs that remind Bucky they are still alive, still together –

  _And why wouldn’t they be –_

 Bucky rubs his nose on Steve’s neck and pulls back. He cups Steve’s cheeks into his palms so that he can see him, look into his eyes, his honest eyes, his parted lips –

  _Could be;_ should _be._

 Bucky bites his tongue and leans in closer. In tandem, Steve tilts his head, stretching his neck to reach, and their lips crash together, pressing, desperately. Steve’s fingers dig into Bucky’s back, and Bucky thinks his heart might implode. His body lights up, electric currents running through his veins as he clutches at Steve’s hair, rocks his hips towards Steve’s waist. He slips his tongue inside Steve’s mouth – Steve’s mouth that tastes of beer and chocolate, of salt and of everything Bucky ever wanted to taste. Steve bites on Bucky’s lower lip and Bucky pants against him, tries to pull him closer even though there’s no more space to cross.

 Steve kisses like a man who’s been denied something all his life –

  _And he has._

 Bucky’s skin is hot and tingly, his lips sore after years out of practice, and it’s uncomfortable, the way they’re trying to fit into the chair, fit on top of each another, but they’re together –

 Steve stands, hands on the back of Bucky’s knees to support his weight as Bucky holds on tight. He lifts him easily, their lips still locked, their kisses still rough, achingly hungry. Steve holds onto Bucky, and Bucky clings on Steve like... Like a fucking horny octopus.

 Steve gently drops Bucky on the couch and climbs on top of him. Palms against the cushions, he pulls back to look at him with stars in his eyes and Bucky misses him, makes a feeble move forward to reach him. Steve’s lips are swollen, and it is all Bucky, it is all him –

 “Why didn’t we do this sooner?” Steve asks.

 Bucky wants to cry with joy.

 Steve dives in, runs kisses over Bucky’s neck, his cheek, his nose, and Bucky moans or maybe whimpers, his legs tangling with Steve’s. Their noses bump when Bucky captures Steve’s mouth, his tongue running over Steve’s teeth. He’s half-hard now, and Steve is half-hard himself, Steve is his –

 They make out until Bucky loses sense on his lips and Steve can’t catch his breath. Steve drops his head on Bucky’s chest, shifting to his side as much as the couch allows. He plasters himself across Bucky’s body, twisting Bucky’s henley in his fist.

 The mood shifts slightly and Bucky steals a glance at Steve’s face, that part of it that he can see. He looks grief-stricken, bereft, and Bucky cards his fingers through Steve’s hair, making it stick all over the place.

 “Hey,” he says softly.

 “Hey,” Steve murmurs against Bucky’s chest.

 “Why d’you look so sad?”

 “Why _didn’t_ we do this sooner?” Steve asks, brow wrinkling in a frown.

 Bucky bites the inside of his cheek, dancing around a right answer.

 “The circumstances weren’t right,” he says vaguely. Right now, he can’t remember a time before this, and neither does he want to.

 “What circumstances?” Steve says, jerking his head all spite and fire, lower lip jutting out as he looks up. “There never was a time when I didn’t want this.”

 Bucky puffs out a small, reverent breath.

 “I don’t want to be without you,” Steve stresses.

 “But you’re not,” Bucky says, hand nestling in Steve’s hair.

 “It feels like we’re never close enough,” Steve says, his frown deepening. “That this is the first time I’ve touched you in –”

 He shakes his head, and Bucky thinks, _In decades_. He is glad Steve doesn’t give it voice. The sound of it would shatter him.

 This is simpler. This is nice.

 “I’m being an idiot,” Steve says.

 “No, I get it,” Bucky says in a low murmur. “But now we’re here. We made it.” He ruffles Steve’s hair, stretches to kiss the lines off his brow. “Yeah?” he asks tenderly.

 Steve exhales a sigh. “Yeah.”

~

 Bucky soon discovers that he got the short end of the stick when he chose his bedroom, whenever that was. Steve’s bed feels sturdier, the mattress hard just the way Bucky likes it, the fluffy pillows perfect for wrapping his arms around when he doesn’t wrap them around Steve.

 They forget to draw the drapes so Bucky wakes up first for once, the sunlight streaming into the room settling warmly on his face. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes, untangling himself from Steve’s side. Apparently at some point during the night he’d taken it upon himself to be the big spoon and had etched himself on Steve’s back. His knees feel stiff, the left shoulder that he slept on sore, but Bucky is overjoyed. His skin smells of Steve, his hair is matted because of Steve’s pillow, and his heart is light because of Steve’s – well – existence.

 Also, his dick is somewhat hard.

 Bucky lets out a small chuckle and falls on his back. The movement jolts the mattress and Steve stirs, murmurs something muffled as he reaches backwards. He flops onto his back and looks at Bucky, his face patterned with pillow marks. There’s a fading hickey on his neck, barely there anymore, but Bucky preens.

 He preens more when his eyes wander to Steve’s sweatpants.

 “Where’re you,” Steve mumbles, voice cottony as he fumbles for Bucky’s hand.

 Bucky grins like a madman and Steve looks at him groggily, follows his eye line down to his hips. His eyes widen as he registers his own prominent erection and he scrambles backwards, a pink blush worming up his cheeks.

  _Where you gonna go, Steve_ , Bucky smirks; _you’ve reached headboard._ He lets out a snort, because it’s a little belated as far as reactions go. Last night Steve wasn’t quite so timid.

 “Erhm, hm,” Steve hums.

 Bucky smirks wider. He reaches out and runs his fingers over Steve’s erection, hard inside his pants. Steve shivers.

 “That’s not helping,” he says awkwardly.

 Bucky moves closer.


	4. Chapter 4

 Bucky shops for groceries like a man starved and deprived. Fuzzily he remembers that it’s about being short of money, and the markets being short on food – not surprising, considering the places he’s found himself in in his military tours; later, he couldn’t spare the energy, or he didn’t have the time. These and maybe a million other factors have turned him into the most avid, curious supermarket shopper, treating the merchandise aisles like haute couture stores, or new World War II propaganda posters that have just popped up on the local street walls. The supermarket in this tiny town might be mini-sized, but it is well-stocked and empty of people, save the middle-aged clerk idly reading a book behind the checkout counter. It serves its purpose fine.

 Steve isn’t quite so avid. He _knew_ what he was getting into – it can’t be the first time they’ve gone grocery shopping together after living together for so long. So really, Bucky thinks, there’s no need for that poorly-disguised disgruntled look on his face as he shuffles and twirls the still half-empty shopping basket in his hand, waiting as Bucky pores over potato chip flavors.

 Bucky takes his sweet time all the same, because Steve should’ve expected this. _He_ was the one to suggest they go shopping together, when he’d announced they were out of maple syrup, blueberries, milk and – whatever else; by that point he’d started planting butterfly kisses on the side of Bucky’s neck after each word, so Bucky wasn’t quite paying attention.

 Bucky, two bags in hand, turns over his shoulder to glower at Steve’s impatience, but it’s short-lived. Steve’s whole damn face lights up when his eyes meet Bucky’s, his mouth splitting into the broadest toothy grin, and Bucky just melts a little. He shakes his head fondly.

 “Punk.”

 “What?” Steve half-complains, moving closer.

 “I know you’re bored.”

 Steve clicks his tongue with a small whine. “Just choose something! Or take everything if you can’t decide – just take something!”

 “It’s a process,” Bucky says, dropping several chip bags into the basket. “We’re out of sweet things.”

 He moves further down the aisle. Steve lazily trails after him.

 “Why’re we out of sweet things,” Bucky mumbles as he peruses sweet snacks.

 He’s much more liberal with sweets than with the chips, too, so at least Steve shouldn’t complain for a while. He just dumps everything in the basket, choosiness be damned. Said basket is starkly devoid of any actual food.

 “’Cause you ate them all?” Steve suggests with a crooked smirk.

 At the end of the aisle awaits a whole wall of dairy products which call to Bucky like a nearly-frozen creature calls for heat. He deliberates over cheeses, almost forgets himself between the cheddars and gruyeres. Steve’s light touch on the small of his back distracts Bucky something fierce.

 “Gonna get the milk,” Steve says softly as he brushes by, squeezing his forearm with an affection that seeps right down to Bucky’s bones.

 And he can do this, now. They’re together now. It comes as an epiphany, an angel choir over Bucky’s shoulders, trumpets and fireworks and tiny doves flying above his head. It’s not a secret anymore, quietly harbored just inside his chest, in the darkness of his room or the silence of his mind; not a thought clandestinely kept behind closed doors. If his heart hammers out of pure fondness, he can share that; if his veins throb with affection so deep that he could drown in it, he can speak up; if he craves touch, kisses – snuggles, goddammit, he’s a snuggler – he can very well say so.

 It comes as an epiphany and warms him from the inside, hands tingling with enthusiasm, throat itching to emit a happy shriek.

 He grabs Steve’s wrist instead and spins him, lightly pushing him against a bare patch of wall to nibble on his lower lip. His hand fists around the thin fabric of Steve’s long-sleeved t-shirt and Steve grins, the curling of his lips infectious. Steve’s fingers slip in Bucky’s hair, untangling it from its loose bun as Steve pulls Bucky closer, locking his lips into a deeper, gentler kiss. Bucky doesn’t need prompting to return the favor.

 Steve stops suddenly, lowering his hand and resting it on Bucky’s waist, his eyelashes tickling Bucky’s skin as his eyes flutter open. Bucky, lips parted in mid-kiss, looks up to inspect the cause of interruption, the reason behind Steve’s shit-eating grin. He turns behind his shoulder.

 Natasha and Sam peek at them from the end of an aisle.

 “Hm!” Sam hums approvingly, eyebrows raised to his hairline.

 “Mm...” Natasha smirks slyly. “Appreciate the show.”

 Steve chuckles. Bucky’s cheeks flush red.

 “As you were.” Natasha tilts her head goodbye and slips down the aisle.

 “Later,” Sam tells Steve, following at Natasha’s heels.

 “Why are you even here!” Bucky shouts, his abashed indignation making him rise on his tiptoes.

 “Gotta get the stuff to make your coffee, Barnes!” Natasha calls out of sight, disappeared between food stands and aisles.

 Typical ninja attitude.

 Bucky falls back to his feet with a huff.

 Steve tugs at his wrist. “C’mere, you.”

~

 Bucky’s groan at Natasha’s unrelenting smirk gets lost under the soft hissing of the coffee machine. It’s no surprise that she’s already at her post, having beat Steve and Bucky to it by a mile. Bucky got sidetracked one too many times, first by food and then by Steve’s attempt to distract him from his lengthy perusal of fabric softeners.

 It was a pleasant distraction.

 Wanda’s presence, however, is unexpected.

 “Hey!” she exclaims, looking from Bucky to Steve to the grocery bags resting on the table.

 She balances an old guitar on the back of a chair, as bewildered to see them there as Bucky feels. She opens her arms to engulf Steve in a hug that has her standing on her tiptoes, her chin barely reaching the top of his shoulder.

 Bucky chances a glance at Natasha, gauging for signs of oddity. Sensing him, she stares back, her eyes hard and her lips twitching upwards in a grimace more cautioning than friendly, far from the teasing she demonstrated earlier.

 “Hey!” Wanda calls.

 Bucky drops his gaze from Natasha, turning to Wanda with a small smile. He can do staring matches with the best of them, but he’s glad to have an excuse to bulk down from this one. Natasha is a formidable opponent.

 “What’re you doing here?” Bucky asks, eyes flicking to the guitar behind her. “You changing careers?”

 “I was going to surprise you! I meant to get our coffees, surprise you when you came home. Beat me to it,” she adds with a playful grunt.

 “You got a guitar?” Steve motions at the instrument with his head.

 “I got it from Peter.” Wanda rests her palm on the headstock. “He found it in his basement, and it isn’t his aunt’s – she’s away now, business trip, but she doesn’t play, he’d know,” she explains as Steve nods along. “I mentioned I play a little, he said I could go get it.”

 “Nice of him,” Steve says at the same time that Bucky exclaims, “You play?”

 Steve looks at him quizzically. “Of course she plays. Taught herself a few years ago.”

 “Well,” Wanda says bashfully, “just a little. But now I can practice again.”

 “I’ll give you a playlist,” Steve says with a smile.

 Wanda chuckles. “Personally catered.”

 “You know him” – Bucky feigns dismissiveness – “just Marvin Gaye and songs fit only for gramophones.”

 “‘Scuse me,” Steve objects over Wanda’s giggle, “I’m into musicals now too, y’know.”

 “Disney songs don’t count as musicals,” Bucky drawls.

 “Sure do!” Wanda protests.

 “Thank you.” Steve reaches out for a high-five that Wanda returns, his look thoroughly vindicated. “What are you up to today?”

 Wanda shrugs. “Not much. I thought we’d just hang out, plan out the next few days,” she says, looking at Bucky for agreement.

 “I’ll leave you to it then.”

 Steve pats himself, fumbling for his key. He squeezes Wanda into a one-armed side hug and turns to Bucky, who gives him what he meant to be a disarming grin but comes out as rather wolfish. Steve tugs the hair strands that he himself got loose behind Bucky’s ear, his fingers gentle as they pass over Bucky’s skin. He cradles Bucky’s head and leans a little, smooching the tip of Bucky’s nose and brushing his forehead with a small peck.

 Bucky scrunches his nose, his heart singing with glee.

 Steve’s lips tug into a smirk that’s only rivaled by Natasha’s as he gathers the grocery bags in his arms.

 “Bye!” he calls to Natasha.

 “See you, Steve,” she says huskily.

 “Have fun,” he tells Wanda with a smile.

 “Thank you!” she calls after him, stunned, a minute too late as the bell tingles his departure. Wanda looks at Bucky, head quirked as she reaches her conclusions. “Are you two...”

 Bucky nods, unable to stop himself from grinning.

 “I’m so happy for you!” Wanda beams, clapping her hands together. “Took you a while.”

 “Sure did,” Natasha mutters, so low that Wanda doesn’t seem to hear her.

 “It did, Steve has known since he was sixteen,” Wanda says. “That’s near twenty years.”

 She lets out a small gasp, startled by her words. Bucky gathers that she wasn’t meant to share.

 “Should’ve told him to act sooner then, huh?” he teases, trying to dispel the awkwardness.

 Wanda chuckles, the sound devoid of humor. She scratches her upper lip, shuffling, and Bucky gives her a minute. He traces the neck of the guitar, idly plucks one of the strings; the instrument whines, low and grungy.

 “It’s out of tune,” Wanda explains.

 Bucky runs his hand up and down the strings. “You gonna play us a song, then?”

 Wanda beams. “I’m gonna play you a love ballad.”

~

 “You what now?” Bucky steps over Steve’s socked feet and plops himself on the couch. The chips overfilling his bowl shake precariously at his careless flop.

 “Uh huh,” Steve says, munching on chips of his own, wiping dip off the corner of his mouth. Homemade dip, no less; somewhere along the way he taught himself to make it, and decided to perform his cooking sorcery on Bucky in the form of crème fraîche and caramelized onion dips.

 He decided well.

 “Thought you were going for a run, not a marathon.”

 “Uh huh” – Steve gulps down a mouthful – “was so. We just happened to end up at Thor’s farm.”

 “But that’s – _miles_ away,” Bucky says vaguely. “How is he?”

 “Thor? He’s fine.”

 “I mean” – Bucky waves a hand, miffed at Steve not giving the matter the gravity it warrants – “what with yesterday.”

 “I know what you meant, he’s fine.” Steve pauses between chews to assure of his assertion. “Not a scratch, no mention of it, nothing.”

 Bucky watches him eat for a second. “Uncanny.”

 “Uh huh,” Steve agrees. There’s not much else he can say with that amount of food inside his mouth.

 Bucky narrows his eyes. “So much for you nagging my chip choices.”

 “The time, the time it _took_!” Steve protests.

 Bucky leans forward, dunks some chips into the dip. The back and forth irritates him, so he grips the bowls and sets them on the couch.

 “How did Sam take it? The running distance?”

 Steve raises an eyebrow at the dips, wobbling ominously at every move. “That’s gonna end well.”

 “Don’t care.” Bucky chews obnoxiously, to show exactly how much he doesn’t care.

 Steve’s eyes absently flicker to the television, a black and white movie with the sound turned low playing out on the screen. A gray lady cries on her vanity table while a gray tall man pleads with her, spinning his hat between his hands.

 “Yeah, he – he was graceful about it,” he says, returning to the chips.

 Bucky snorts.

 “Thor came back with us, after.” Steve leans forward, wiping dip off Bucky’s chin. “Wanted to go by the animal shelter ‘cause he had a few questions...”

 The ellipsis audible in Steve’s voice is left hanging, and Bucky stares at him. It’s possible he’ll burst if he isn’t asked to elaborate.

 “Oh?” Bucky obliges him.

 “He wanted to know if Clint has any messenger ravens,” Steve says in one breath.

 “Ravens?” Bucky twists his mouth in a frown. “I thought that was pigeons. And Clint doesn’t actually know that much about animals,” he adds.

 “Which is what Clint tells him,” Steve goes on. “Thor, confused, goes on to explain that he needs ravens to oversee his farm and inform him of activity, suspicious or not.”

 Bucky raises his eyes up at Steve, short of rolling them with disbelief.

 “At this point Clint is staring at him as if he’s saying that the sky is red,” Steve continues, “but Thor insists, says that he needs ravens like Huginn and Muninn.”

 “...Who?” Bucky rasps.

 Steve lifts his shoulders, then lets them fall dramatically. “Goes on to talk about Midgard serpents, tamed wolves and the great and terrible bilgesnipes.”

 Bucky blinks, licking salt off his lips. “I don’t get it. And what’s Midgard?”

 “Beats me!” Steve exclaims.

 “Maybe he was pulling your leg,” Bucky suggests, easing into the couch cushions.

 “He looked really upset,” Steve says. “Clint tried to pass him a dog instead.”

 Bucky snorts. “’Course he did. Wolf, dog, same thing, right?”

 “A loveable buddy,” Steve says, folding one leg beneath the other. “One-eyed, short and stumpy, really excitable.”

 Bucky nods, his eyes on the dips as he deliberates over which to choose. He looks up when Steve’s finger pokes him in the collarbone.

 “And Princess Honey was really happy to see me,” Steve says sheepishly.

 “Princess Honey? That her real name?”

 “And there was this kitten, a black furball –”

 “We could adopt some time,” Bucky says on a whim, his voice level as he sizes up Steve’s reaction.

 Steve’s features soften. He looks brighter somehow, illuminated from the inside as his face cracks into a smile. “You’d want that?”

 “Sure,” Bucky says, and now curses his choice to bring the dips onto the couch. How’s he supposed to get close to Steve?

 Steve props his elbow on the back cushions, resting his head on the crook of his palm. “How domestic of you.”

 “You bring the domestic out in me,” Bucky says easily, meticulously moving the bowls on the coffee table.

 “Nah,” Steve says serenely. “You were always a housecat at heart.”

 “Yeah?” Bucky scoots closer, kneeling on the couch as he rubs his head and cheek on Steve’s shoulder. “Pet me.”

 Steve laughs.

 “Jerk.”

~

  The downside to the bliss is that the nightmares start.

 Bucky is unprepared, immersed as he is in his newly found status as the one half of a relationship equation, elated at how nothing’s really changed except for that his wishes can turn true in real time. 

 Steve nuzzles Bucky’s chest when they go to bed, his legs straddling Bucky’s thigh as he gets comfortable. Bucky threads his fingers through Steve’s hair, still damp from his late shower, and Steve hums his contentment and shimmies even closer, if such a thing is possible.

 So Bucky is quite unprepared when he wakes up at 2am, drenched in sweat and heart thrashing violently inside his ribcage. Half-formed images still play in his mind, dizzying and dark. He is convinced, down to his core, that he has attacked, maimed, killed.

 He looks to his side. Steve is sleeping peacefully, uninjured and alive. Bucky inhales deeply and tries to quench his fear, regretting how lightly he’s dismissed Steve’s own dreaming. He tries to make out shapes in the room, turns on the bedside lamp just to ensure that no one’s there.

 Steve squeezes his eyes tight against the light.

 “What’s happening,” he whines drowsily.

 “Nothing,” Bucky breathes, turning off the lamp. “Sorry.”

 Steve opens his eyes, looks at Bucky up and down. “What’s wrong?”

 “Nothing, sorry, I –” Bucky runs a hand through his hair – “Nightmare.”

 “Wanna talk about it?”

 Bucky could not, even if he wanted to. The dream was nothing more than disconnected scenes and intense feelings. A hand squeezing tight around someone’s throat; a gut-wrenching scream as someone jams a metal crown over Bucky’s head; a gun cocked and resting on a silver palm.

 It doesn’t make sense; it doesn’t feel surreal.

 Bucky doesn’t know what to make of it, so he lets it alone. He cuddles against Steve, grabbing Steve’s arm and wrapping it around himself.

 “No,” he says.

 Steve just pulls him closer.

 It becomes the new normal. It is a strange routine to fall into, but it is what it is, so fall they do. Bucky wakes up in the middle of the night, looking for shadows in the dark and asking whether he perchance hurt anyone; Steve pulls him close and murmurs reassurances till Bucky falls asleep. Steve wakes up in the morning with Peggy’s shouting echoing in his head, or whisperings in Tony’s voice that it’s all wrong, a perfect pretense; Bucky cradles him until Steve feels safe enough to face the day.

 “D’y’all maybe eat dinner too late, go to bed with a heavy stomach?” Sam teases lightly.

 He misses Steve’s glare, but catches his childlike pout in time and laughs.

 Bucky bristles, hands in his pockets and shoulders slouched, half-regretting his decision to join Steve and Sam on their walk in the park. It’s too early, and too bright, and he still hasn’t acquired sunglasses. In an act of desperation, he takes his hair down and lets it fall around his face, in a vain attempt to hide behind their shade.

 Nevertheless, here he is, and here is Steve, both of them flanking Sam at either side as if he’s their last beacon of logic. Bucky needs validation to his uneasiness. Bucky also needs someone to tell him he’s irrational.

 “Relax. I’m joking. Dreams are weird, man.” He takes a quick sip of his take-away coffee. “And you two, the ‘vets that love the Mets’,” he quotes Scott, “are bound to have vivid dreams, unpleasant, even gruesome. It’s the wonderful PTSD world.”

 “Shell shock,” Steve tells Bucky reflexively and Bucky grunts.

 “I know that.”

 “Shell shock.” Sam shakes his head. “You’re so vintage.”

 “But,” Steve insists, “it’s the same dream. Over and over.”

 “With Stark’s words,” Sam points out. “He clearly did a number on you the other day.”

 “But every time,” Steve says, a frown creasing his brow, “it feels like I’m forgetting something I should remember. Something important.”

 “You probably are,” Sam says. “Dreams are just part of your subconscious. Yours decided to take on the face of Peggy. I get it, it’s unpleasant, but she meant a lot to you, so it makes sense that it’d be her. You’re trying to tell yourself something, and Peggy’s someone you would listen to.”

 He sits on a bench, stretching his neck as Steve and Bucky plop down on either side, staring at him as if he holds the truths of life. Sam glances at them, slightly amused, before he continues.

 “At least they come and go. Don’t wake you up like your boy here.”

 Bucky shifts. His dreams do wake him and he hates it, hates seeing them, speaking about them. Most of all he hates how real they feel, as if they’re part of memories, a life long-forgotten.

 “Mrs. Kay passed away last night,” Sam says quietly after a silent moment.

 Steve lowers his head. “I’m sorry.”

 “It was a matter of time, but still. Doesn’t make it any easier. Although me, I feel like I didn’t even know her, at all. I knew _of_ her. No one’s coming for her though.”

 “Didn’t have any family?” Steve asks.

 “Ah, she supposedly does, but they live – elsewhere? Not here.” Sam lifts his shoulders, his eyes distant. “And they’re not coming. Far as I know.”

 “You in charge of the funeral?” Bucky asks.

 “Yeah,” Sam replies. “Just me and the few neighbors that will be coming along. Keeping it between us.” He shakes his head. “It just feels... It’s weird – don’t take this to heart, Steve, it’s not something to dream about,” he tries to joke, “but it feels like we’re in a bubble. A small little bubble of a town, isolated from everything and everyone. What’s happening elsewhere, why aren’t people visiting, why aren’t people leaving? It’s like we’re in – in stasis.”

 Bucky watches him carefully, refusing to share that he agrees. He steals a glance at Steve, who’s visibly troubled as he considers – or maybe reconsiders – the thought.

 “But isn’t life like that in small towns?” Bucky asks carefully. “We chose this.”

 Steve gives him a look and Bucky recoils, because if anything, that look shows confusion. There seems to be an unspoken question, _Did we? When?_ Bucky averts his eyes, stubbornly staring at the ground.

 “I guess,” Sam says noncommittally. “Sometimes I think of leaving though and it feels impossible, somehow. Like I’m trapped here.” He scoffs. “I guess everyone feels like that sometimes.”

 “I guess,” Steve says stiffly.

 “Sometimes –” Sam lets out a small laugh, his eyes to the sky – “sometimes I think I’ve seen it all from above. Like I’m somewhere up there, watching it all from up high. It’s so small. Tiny. And I’m just up there, free from it all, chill air on my face, just – gliding on air currents.”

 “Like an angel?” Steve’s lips tug into a smirk.

 Sam lets out a laugh.

 “Maybe you were a bird in another life,” Bucky suggests.

 “Maybe,” Sam says, gazing wistfully at the clear sky.

~

 A hand is holding a gun. The hand is speckled with red stars and the gun is a dull silver. It’s Bucky that’s holding it, only it isn’t. He – the real Bucky – watches as the doppelganger in his body raises the weapon, points it at someone out of sight. The gun gleams; the image clears up. He’s wearing a uniform plucked out of a history book, a little too loose and long on his lean frame. The hat stands impeccable over his short hair, and his eyes –

 Someone calls his name.

 His eyes scare him. They’re glazed, the eyes of a puppet, devoid of life and left to the mercy of the one moving the strings. He poses the gun and Bucky yelps; the person on the other end is Steve. He’s small and scrawny, pale and insolent, the way Bucky remembers him and the way he can’t have been. Bucky whimpers. The dead-eyed Bucky will shoot him. He’ll shoot Steve, and Bucky can’t stop it, he can’t do a damn thing, and the last thing Steve will see before he dies is his face, not-Bucky’s face, the blank, unforgiving stare–

 “ _Bucky_!” Steve hisses and nudges hard at Bucky’s ribs.

 Bucky’s eyelids flutter.

 “Did I hurt anyone,” he murmurs. He fumbles for an anchor, but the dream tries to pull him in, to shoot–

 “ _Buck_!”

 Bucky jerks awake with a violent twitch. He breathes heavily, eyes fleeting all over until the room comes slowly into focus.

 “You were dreaming, we’re fine,” Steve says in a low voice.

 He looks wide awake, and Bucky blinks, confused. The sheet is tangled at his feet like a restraint and he throws it off, shaking his shoulders to get rid of the uneasiness. His t-shirt clinging on his back is damp with sweat, and still his mind isn’t quite catching up.

 “Eh?” he says blearily.

 “Listen,” Steve whispers.

 Bucky, caught between dream-induced guilt and complete incomprehension, tries to make sense of Steve’s words. He props himself up on his elbows when he hears the voice, raised shouting coming from the street below.

 He brushes hair away from his forehead as Steve springs out of bed and stalks to the window, moving the drapes to peer outside. The pale moonlight slithers its way inside the room, dispelling the darkness and prodding Bucky into attention. He gets up and pads to the window.

 “Is it Stark?” he asks.

 “It’s –” Steve hesitates – “It’s a disaster.”

~

 Tony Stark is annoying, competitive and occasionally odd, but he’s never been known to actually cause trouble. Thus it is quite unexpected when he ends up sauntering down the street at 3am, barefoot in neon shorts and a halter top, glaring at the sky and shouting incoherencies. He must’ve been gardening, or Bucky hopes he was despite the late hour, because there’s a trowel in Stark’s hand that he waves against the sky.

 “Where _are_ you!”

 Steve trots down the street, the cardigan carelessly thrown over his t-shirt flying behind him like a cape. Where he finds this kind of energy after having been rudely awakened, Bucky doesn’t know. _He_ takes his sleepy time joining Steve on the street, his steps heavy and his movements slow. He dips his head forward and ties his hair in a messy top knot; 3am is not the time for neat hair buns smoothly resting on napes of necks. He wraps his arms around himself, snuggling into his hoodie.

 “What did you _do_!” Stark is shouting still. “Bring them _back_. Bring them back, you bastard,” he says, voice breaking. “Where are they. Where _are they_!”

 Bucky chews the inside of his lip contemplatively. “Is he drunk?”

 Steve shrugs helplessly, mouth tight as he seems to debate whether he should act or stay put. 

 “Bring who back?” Bucky asks in an undertone, watching Stark raise his arms and plead with the sky. “Did someone die? What _do_ we know of Tony Stark?”

 “I –”

 Steve doesn’t get to finish his sentence, if he meant to finish it at all. Stark raves.

 “ _You can’t do this_!” he slurs, spinning around, arms spread wide in defiance.

 A light turns on in a nearby house, then a second. Steve decides it’s time to intervene.

 “Tony,” he calls steadily.

 Stark doesn’t seem to listen, so he tries again, voice as loud as he can manage without actually shouting.

 “Tony!”

 Stark turns around wild-eyed, and Bucky sees something in him akin to the faces in his nightmares. He swallows through his dry throat and wraps the hoodie tighter around himself.

 “He can’t do this,” Stark informs flatly. “I KNOW YOU DID SOMETHING!” he yells at no one in particular, eyes sweeping the neighborhood as though someone’s lurking in the bushes.

 More lights come on in previously sleeping houses and Steve flinches. He takes a few steps forward, slow and unthreatening, palms out in a pacifying gesture.

 “Tony, give me the trowel,” he says.

 “It’s all wrong,” Stark whispers frantically.

 “I know,” Steve soothes. “That’s not the way to go about it. Just give me the trowel, we’ll go in, and we’ll figure it out.”

 Stark stares at him, his expression a mix of sadness and surrender. Steve stands motionless, vigilant, a man trying to approach an untamable animal. Time stands still for a few seconds, until a door slam makes all three men jump.  Officer Rhodes, pajama-clad and pissed off as hell, flies down his front steps and jogs toward the scene.

 “Tony!” he calls crossly. “The hell are you doing!”

 Stark turns to Rhodes and instantly deflates, shoulders sagging and head dropping forward as though someone turned off a switch.

 Steve takes the opportunity to approach closer. “Come on,” he says, gently prying the trowel out of Stark’s unresisting hand. “Let’s get inside.”

~

 “At least it wasn’t something pointy,” Bucky mutters to Steve a few minutes later, standing – who would’ve thought – in Stark’s overstuffed living room.

 He wouldn’t have pegged Stark for an overstuffed-house kind of person. He expected to see neat surfaces and leather couches, white impeccably clean walls and mannequins made of steel, though in retrospect, he has nothing to back this with. He keeps as far from the shabby couch as possible, feeling like an intruder in someone else’s home. Back against the wall, he watches as Rhodes hands a glass of water to a near-shivering Stark and wraps a blanket over his shoulders.

 Rhodes sits gingerly on an armchair, studying Stark as he sets the glass on the coffee table and looks up at Steve almost guiltily. He wraps the blanket tight around him, eyes falling on Bucky, then on Bucky’s arms. He locks his stare on Bucky’s left hand, unblinking, unreadable, and Bucky squirms. He crosses his arms to conceal whatever’s keeping Stark fixated on him.

 Stark shakes his head and huffs out a sigh.

 “What the hell, Tony,” Rhodes says, but there’s no force into his voice.

 “It’s all wrong,” Stark says shakily. “It’s – I’ve been trying to see why, how, but I can’t – I don’t have the means...” He looks at Steve. “I tried to tell you,” he says tensely. “I tried, I –”

 “What _is_ wrong?” Rhodes asks. “Is it the multi-universe theory, is that it again?”

 “Multi-verse?” Steve asks.

 Stark winces. “There’s two of everything, there’s...” He steals a glance at Rhodes. “Rhodey thinks I’m being ridiculous, but there’s – I remember two lives. No – no, that’s wrong,” he amends, “I _half remember_ two lives, two worlds, I _fully_ remember none, not one, both are incomplete. I know I’m _here_ , but I wasn’t always. I should be elsewhere. _We_ should be elsewhere. We should –”

 His eyes fall on Bucky’s left arm again, and Bucky feels a wild urge to flee. He scoots closer to Steve.

 Stark shakes his head. “We should, um,” he says, absently scratching at the middle of his chest, “we should –”

 “Where should we be, Tony,” Rhodes says, with the patience of someone who’s heard this one too many times, but is willing to listen if Stark needs it.

 “I don’t – I don’t know.” Stark scrubs his hand over his face. “I don’t remember. New York, maybe.”

 “Have you _ever_ been to New York,” Rhodes says flatly.

 “No,” Stark replies. “And yes. I lived there. You, too. In another life. But not in this one.”

 “You’re not talking about reincarnation, are you?” Steve asks.

 Stark clicks his tongue peevishly. “No. Of course not, no – something has _shifted_ ,” he says. “We weren’t always this. We _became_ this. This isn’t real.”

 “Feels real to me,” Rhodes says.

 “We didn’t choose this,” Stark insists.

 Bucky pulls back, but there’s nowhere to go. Stark’s words are threatening and reassuring, unsettling and validating.

 He half-wishes he could disappear into the wall.

 “We just refuse to see it,” Stark continues quietly, mostly to himself. He runs his fingers over the rim of the water glass. “Because this is easy.”

 “What do you want us to see?” Steve asks evenly.

 Stark shakes his head. “I told you, I don’t remember. I keep forgetting. It comes and goes and I keep forgetting.”

 “Write it down,” Bucky says, his voice tiny.

 Stark snaps his head, looking at him as though he’s just revealed the secrets of the universe.

 “How long has it been since you last slept, Tony?” Rhodes asks gently.

 “Don’t know,” Stark says, distracted. “Doesn’t matter. Four days or so.”

 “Okay,” Rhodes says confidently. “Okay, I’ve got this.” He stands up to squeeze Stark’s shoulder. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself, buddy. We’re gonna go to sleep.” He rubs Stark’s back soothingly. “I’ve got this,” he tells Steve.

 Steve leans against the wall and stares at Stark for a long moment, unobserved by Stark himself, who’s gently coaxed into lying on the couch, or Rhodes who’s murmuring words of comfort in the other man’s ear. Steve pushes himself off the wall and walks to the door. Bucky follows, tucking behind his ears hairs that are already tucked in place.

 “See you tomorrow, Tony,” Steve says.

 “You know I’m right,” Stark murmurs as he settles on his side.

 Steve presses his lips, swallowing down his words. “Night, Tony.”

 “You know I’m right, Cap!” Stark calls with one final burst of energy.

 Steve freezes, hand stilling over the doorknob. He bites his lower lip, his jaw clenching as he steels himself. He turns to look at Stark cautiously, afraid of what he’ll see into his face.

 He’d see nothing – Bucky could tell him as much.

 Stark’s already half-gone, eyes fluttering close in a restless doze.

~

 Bucky wishes the same about Steve and himself, but it’s not to be. Not tonight.

 They lay in the dark in Steve’s bed for what feels like hours. Steve folds his hands over his chest, his eyes wide open, gleaming in the near dark. Bucky stares at the ceiling, head propped on Steve’s shoulder.

 “He called me Cap,” Steve says matter-of-factly after loaded silence.

 “At this rate, I’m tempted to start calling you Cap myself,” Bucky tries for light-heartedness, but it comes out half-hearted.

 Steve turns to look at him. “I was your fucking Captain and you never called me that.”

 “That’s ‘cause you’re Steve,” Bucky says, sliding his fingers in whatever space he can find amid Steve’s hands.

 Steve makes room for him, lacing their fingers. “He couldn’t have known.”

 “What do we know about Stark?” Bucky asks earnestly.

 “No one here knows my rank,” Steve says.

 “Maybe he snooped,” Bucky suggests.

 Steve studies him for a second. “D’you believe that?”

 Bucky bites his lower lip. “No.”

 Steve nods, features relaxing if only minutely. “Didn’t look like that. Even if he did, that didn’t look to be the point.”

 It didn’t. It doesn’t.

 There’s a great chance Stark might be insane.

 There’s a great chance Stark might be a genius.


	5. Chapter 5

 Bucky believes in a lot of things. He believes in fiction and that it’s somehow rooted in a truth, believes in science fiction and that one day it might come true. He believes in fantasy, imagination and in the unknown. He cannot deny the existence of spirits, aliens, mythical monsters and sea creatures that deep down only crave to be loved. Back in the day, airplanes were inconceivable, television a fancy, history as he knows it hadn’t come into fruition yet and wireless Internet was not even a distant dream.

 Anything can exist if one cannot dispute it, so Bucky finds himself unable to dismiss in good conscience Stark’s theory. Not when he feels it in his bones that something is misplaced, something in him is detached from what he sees as his reality.

 It is possible that he’s experiencing a mental breakdown. If he is, so is the rest of the town – or at least Steve, Stark, Clint, possibly Sam and maybe even Natasha, unless she was always a ninja and is just that good at keeping up façades.

 Every self-respecting small town has dark secrets, but theirs might be a little more complex than the rest.

 The thought nags at him during breakfast, over the pancakes that Steve makes as he mutters about soldiers who are howling and a menace in a red-headed mask. It nags at him when he does the dishes, as Steve kisses the side of Bucky’s neck, and nags at him when he kisses Steve goodbye and makes his way to Wanda’s. He forgoes the usual coffee run. He’s possibly about to start an avalanche, unravel things that should or shouldn’t stay raveled; he’s too edgy for coffee.

 Wanda opens the door grinning widely, oblivious to last night’s events. She cups Bucky’s face with her palms, soft and smooth against his scruffy cheeks, and tips her forehead against his as usual. He allows himself to do the same, a moment of peace before the turning of the tide.

 “Good morning, buttercup,” she says brightly.

 “Buttercup,” Bucky murmurs. “Morning.”

 “I had this idea,” Wanda announces as she steps aside. “Transparent lip balms with beads inside.”

 “Sounds nice,” Bucky says without persuasion.

 “I have the beads. I could order the containers and –”

 “Hey, Wanda?” Bucky runs a hand over his hair. “Why don’t we just...” He gestures vaguely at Wanda’s living room.

 “Oh. You want to talk about something?”

 Wanda’s assumption is correct and her interest rightly peaked as she perches on the couch. Bucky sits on the loveseat, wringing his hands as he leans toward her. He opens his mouth, takes a short breath and promptly closes it, uncertain how to broach the subject.

 “What’s up?” he eventually asks, his tone awkward, clumsy.

 Wanda tilts her head in confusion. “You want to talk about me? Bucky, are you alright?”

 Bucky shakes his head. “I’m fine –”

 “Is Steve?” she asks.

 “What? Yeah.” Bucky twists his lips, now confused himself.

 “Okay” – Wanda nods – “what is it?

 Bucky scoots closer. “What did you do yesterday?”

  “I – what?” Wanda frowns. “You know what I did. I fiddled with that guitar a little, it was terribly out of tune... I was here. Clint came by to say hi, with this dog –”

 “But,” Bucky interrupts, “what did you do a week ago? Two weeks? A month?”

 “I don’t...” She looks at him with concern. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

 “What did you do?” Bucky persists.

 “I –” she lifts her shoulders – “I guess I was doing the same things I always do. Made some thing or other, I’m pretty sure we made some candles together –”

 Bucky doesn’t remember making any candles ever in his life. Once Wanda brings it up, his mind struggles to create a memory for it, of wax and wicks and boilers on the stove. He struggles to dispel it.

 “But do you _remember_?”

 “I’m thinking back to it, what do you mean,” Wanda says, tension creeping into her voice. “It’s not like I can remember details, what I was wearing, or what you were wearing –”

 She passes her eyes over him.

 “You had your hair tied, and you were wearing a hoodie –”

 “That’s what I always do,” Bucky interjects as kindly as he can. “That’s a surmise. Logical deduction.”

 Wanda stares at him. “Maybe,” she says finally, a little skeptical.

 “Where’s Viz?” Bucky asks.

 Wanda flinches, her nostrils flaring. “You know he’s on business.”

 “Where?” Bucky questions.

 “Away,” she says uncertainly. “Manhattan.”

 “Doing what? When’s the last time you remember seeing him?”

 “I told you we talk sometimes,” Wanda starts, but Bucky doesn’t let her have it.

 “When’s the last time you remember seeing him _clearly_ , without any doubt? Remember his voice, or – or his eyes, his –”

 He stops as Wanda shakes her head.

 “I was holding him,” she says.

 Her eyes are on the carpet, staring at patterns of green as she tries to remember. Her voice breaks and Bucky reaches out, enfolds her hands in his. She’s cold, and he squeezes reassuringly.

 “I’m – we’re on the ground? On the floor,” she says, perplexed, not seeming to register the gesture. Her accent comes out thicker than usual, her words disjoined and wet. “And he’s on my lap, his – his head is on my lap and he’s sleeping. His eyes are closed, he must be sleeping, and his face is...” She laughs, high-pitched and unnatural. “I’m picturing his face red so he must’ve been drinking. Me too, if I remember him red. I didn’t –” She grimaces, twisting her lips as though in retrospect she disapproves. “I didn’t want to let him go, so that must’ve been the last time I saw him. Until he comes back.” She tilts her head to look at Bucky, frowning at the expression on his face. “What?”

 “You’re crying,” Bucky says softly.

 Wanda wiggles her hands free. She startles when she touches tears, looks at her fingers as if she doubts her senses. “I am?” she asks, puzzled.

 She looks at Bucky, her eyes so lost that his heart clenches.

 “Why am I crying?”

 She takes in the living room, eyes roaming from floor to ceiling, bewildered as though seeing it for the first time. She looks at her hands, small and pale, waves her fingers in swirling patterns, drawing unseen threads in thin air. Bucky almost thinks he sees wisps of red smoke, currents too faint and impossible to be there. Wanda fixes her gaze on him, and for a second her eyes flash red. He blinks, and the color is gone.

 “I know what you’re thinking,” she states, voice almost flat. “He’s not –” she twists her lips in a grimace of grief – “Why would you think that?”

 Bucky shakes his head. “I’m not thinking anything.” He isn’t lying. He only sees Wanda’s distress, mind blank to all else.

 Wanda insists. “Why would you – you didn’t see...”

 She stares at Bucky through slitted eyes, gauging, speculating, examining. Bucky feels naked to the bone, nerves tingling as he’s overcome by an urge to flee. His fingers dig into the cushions as he bites down his tongue, willing himself to see this through – whatever _this_ is.

 Just as suddenly as she got lost, Wanda comes to. She swallows and straightens her shoulders, the move almost mechanical as she lets her hands fall idly on her lap.

 “My head hurts. Do you mind if we call today off? I think I need to lie down, it’s a migraine.”

 She tries for gentle, but it comes out emotionless. She looks wiser than her young age warrants, certainly older than she looked a few minutes ago. She’s onto something, wheels turning and eyes sparkling with an epiphany she’s not ready to share.

 Bucky wants to hold her, shelter her from what is – or isn’t.

 Bucky feels like an asshole.

~

 “Who rained on _your_ parade?”

 Bucky avoids Natasha’s eyes and heaves out a small sigh. Natasha arches a questioning eyebrow.

 She’s not wrong, not really. Bucky feels like a raincloud is hovering above his head, gray, puffy, and just plain mean. 

 “I upset Wanda,” he moans, flopping onto the chair of an empty table.

 Dr. Banner, currently occupying the single other table in the bakery, looks up from his book and adjusts his glasses. Peter Parker, who apparently _actually_ never attends school and has up to now been gazing at Danishes and buns behind the pastry display, looks at Bucky wide-eyed.

 Scott pops his head out of the kitchen and stares at him reproachfully. “You upset _Wanda?_ ”

 Even Scott’s _chef hat_ is condemning him, dramatically slipping off Scott’s head in a whoosh. Scott catches it seconds before it hits the floor.

 “Jesus.” Bucky rubs his face wearily. The judgment in this place is almost palpable.

 “Wanda?” Peter asks. “How? She’d never hurt a fly, why would you even –”

 “Behave,” Natasha remarks coolly. “None of your business.” She looks at Bucky. “Unless James wants to talk about it,” she says, with a sweetness that’s borderline eerie.

 Reality is peeling like an onion, layer after thin layer, stories and presumed facts refuted by gut instincts and hazy memories that feel truer than true – or maybe it’s just Bucky, except that everyone else seems to be catching up. Either way, he can’t resolve this on his own. At best, they’ll get to find how it all began. At worst, someone will get him the kind of help he needs.

 “Everything feels a little to the left,” he says. “A little unreal.”

 “I know the feeling!” Peter exclaims. “Like you’re not exactly awake, but obviously you’re not sleeping –”

 Bucky raises his eyebrows in attention.

 “You’re here, walking, chatting, but your brain is still in sleep mode, and you’re not thinking too clearly,” Peter goes on, “but you’re thinking okay enough, so you just go on till it clears up.”

 Natasha pointedly turns her attention to wiping the counters clean.

 “Like you only half remember things,” Peter says. “It sucks. Or like –you’re just so inclined to do things you never remember doing before.”

 “Like doing Steve,” Natasha mutters under her breath.

 Bucky snorts. “What the fuck, Natalia.”

 “Natasha,” she corrects mildly.

 “Right,” Bucky says, and the exchange doesn’t feel strange. Maybe the fight is all out of him. Maybe it just makes more sense than he knows.

 “Wait, what? You _are_?” Peter asks, startled.

 “You _weren’t_?” Scott chimes in, visibly more startled than Peter.

 Bucky glowers at them both.

 “Still – wait” – Scott shoots out his palm – “The kid might be onto something. I did that! The thing I never meant to do before,” he says animatedly. “A few days ago, I just woke up and started up ant farms in my garden.”

 “Ant farms,” Bucky echoes.

 “Yes!” Scott exclaims. “I don’t know why I didn’t have them in the first place, and I’ve no idea why I actually need them. But it just felt right.”

 “No, I get it, I get it,” Peter agrees, tapping his fingers on the pastry display, missing Natasha’s disapproving look. “Found a spider in my home. Did I kill it, no, did I chase it away, no, I _chased_ it –” he holds one finger up and pauses for dramatic effect – “because I wanted to keep it as a pet.”

 Natasha gives Peter a small smirk. “People can have weird pets.”

 “And did you?” Dr. Banner pipes up.

 Peter turns at him questioningly.

 “Did you keep it?” Dr. Banner clarifies.

 “Ah, no, man, it got away,” Peter says regretfully. “But yeah, I get it, Sergeant, I get what you’re saying” – he turns to Bucky – “sometimes it feels weird, like a trippy thing. A little to the left, like you said.”

 “’Sergeant’,” Natasha comments.

 “’S true,” Bucky says mildly. Of course Peter knows he was a Sergeant, same way Stark knows Steve was a Captain. For no rational reason at all.

 “How come he knows that?” Scott asks. “The vets that love the Mets never talk about that.”

 Bucky just shrugs.

 “But you are,” Peter says with nervous certainty. “A Sergeant.”

 “Uh huh,” Bucky affirms.

 “But how do I know that,” Peter mutters to himself.

 “Nothing makes sense,” Bucky says simply. “Stark said.”

 “ _Stark_?” Scott says incredulously, as Dr. Banner whispers a resigned, “Tony.”

 “You talking to _Stark_ now?” Scott asks. “I thought we hated him!”

 Natasha quirks her head. “Why the hell would _you_ hate Stark?”

 “I...” Scott wrings his apron, earnestly confused. “I don’t know.”

 “We’re living something strange.” Bucky absently traces patterns on the table. “Don’t know what. But something’s ‘shifted’” – he borrows Stark’s words.

 “To what?” Peter asks, enthralled.

 “Does it really matter?” Dr. Banner says quietly. “Why poke at things you can’t change?”

 Bucky regards him speculatively. “Can’t I?”

 “Can you?” Dr. Banner leans forward. “Can you change reality?”

 “What if this is just a little to the side of it?” Bucky asks, the challenge evident in his tone.

 “Like, an alternate reality? An alternate universe?” Peter’s eyes sparkle at the prospect. “A simulation? A _limbo?_ Maybe we’re all dead, like on that show!” he adds excitedly. His mouth falls when his brain catches up with his words. “Oh.”

 “Does it matter?” Dr. Banner asks. “If something is too big to conceive, too big to alter, does it matter if it’s true? Does it _really_ matter, if we can never know what it is?”

 “Doesn’t it?” Bucky questions.

 “I don’t quite like not knowing,” Natasha says coolly. “Pick it till it bleeds.”

 Dr. Banner regards her thoughtfully, his eyes a little sad. “If none of us remembers, if no one knows... If all of us are at peace, happy even –”

 “I’m not happy,” Scott murmurs. “I’m missing someone and I can’t remember who.”

 “I’m not happy by nature,” Natasha says blandly.

 “I’m just – really confused right now?” Peter frowns.

 Bucky snorts. He looks at Natasha, methodically wiping the counter, and he sees her wiping a knife against her thigh; he looks at Scott, straightening his white apron, and sees him hugging a small girl, brushing tears away. He turns to Peter, who’s staring thoughtfully at the floor, and sees him somersaulting down a truck, landing on his feet and laughing, and looks at Dr. Banner and sees him tired and forlorn amid tubes and glassy vials.

 “Hey – how good are you at science?” Bucky asks.

 The bell tingles a new arrival. Four heads look up in tandem, making T’Challa stop short on his steps.

 The man’s lips quirk upwards. “Is this a council?”

 Natasha smirks. “They just won’t leave me in peace.”

 “Actually, we’re having a very interesting discussion,” Scott chimes in.

 “I’m sure his highness isn’t –” Dr. Banner starts, but promptly stops himself with a groan.

 “There you go,” Natasha breathes approvingly.

 “We’re talking alternate realities,” Scott says. “We’ve proudly reached the conclusion that we’re not living our truly true lives.”

  “Well,” T’Challa says cheerfully, pushing his hands in his pockets, “that would be a relief indeed. I cannot understand this dry life I seem to have built for myself. It being a lie would be more of a salvation.”

 Bucky slaps his palm on the table. “Attaboy.”

 “ _Don’t talk to him like that!_ ” Scott hisses furiously.

 Bucky smiles. It’s a conundrum, all of it, hidden somewhere inside their minds. They just have to find their way to the answers.

~

 “No,” Stark snaps.

 He shoves the door forcefully, trying to slam it shut on Bucky’s face. Bucky thrusts out his hand.

 “Wait.”

 “We’re not friends,” Stark says, eyeing him crossly.

 “We’re not friends,” Bucky asserts.

 Stark opens the door a crack and waits. There’s a thick notebook in his left hand, a pen between his fingers. He’s taking Bucky’s advice, it seems, and works on their existential puzzle. Bucky feels emboldened.

 “I need you to tell me more about your theory.”

 “No,” Stark replies, taut.

 “I think that,” Bucky ploughs on, licking his lips, “you’re either right, or we’re living a mass hallucination that will lead to books-based-on-a-true-story written for us.”

 “Win-win,” Stark says dryly.

 “I know your father,” Bucky says, failing to keep the quiver out of his voice.

 “Everyone does,” Stark replies on reflex. “Or no one does, why would anyone know my father, it’s not like he’s – oh God.” He rubs his face tiredly.

 “I remember talking about guns, with your father, in a tent, discussing how to take out Hitler,” Bucky says. “It doesn’t make sense.”

 “Listen,” Stark says, more drained by it all rather than defensive as per usual. “I’ve been advised to _minimize stimuli_ ,” he emphasizes, tone dripping with sarcasm, “by Bruce, called to check on me by Rhodey, ‘cause apparently I’ve got everyone worried. I’ve been advised to _take it easy_ , stay home and watch cooking shows. So that’s what I’m doing.”

 Bucky scrunches his nose. “You’re watching cooking shows?”

 “Boxing matches,” Stark says, lips twitching as he averts his eyes to avoid a smile.

 Bucky nods. “Rhodes doesn’t believe you?”

 “He’s...” Stark tilts his head, acknowledging the validity of his friend’s stance. “He’s concerned. Used to my fancies, though. He insists he’s a police officer, I insist he’s in the Air Force and parades around in a metal suit in his spare time – these kinds of things put a damper on relationships,” he finishes mildly.

 “I tried to tell Wanda. Asked her about Viz. Vision?” Bucky flinches as the name comes to him. “Vision.”

 “Oh no,” Stark mutters.

 “She cried –”

 “Oh no no no, about _Vision_?! You asked Wanda about Vision?!” Stark yells. “You broke Wanda, you idiot!”

 Bucky jerks back, alarmed.

 “Or maybe you didn’t,” Stark retracts. “Scratch that, maybe you did good. She has an odd little mind, maybe she’ll be the first to see.”

 “See what?” Bucky asks, stiff from the false alarm.

 “What the rest of us can’t!” Stark groans. “With her mumbo jumbo witchy stuff!”

 It shouldn’t make sense, but the words resonate with something deep inside Bucky, more accurate than any tangible truth. The red smoke twirls and rises around the Wanda in his mind, protecting, empowering. Her eyes glow blood-red. She’s terrifying and glorious.

 “Can you tell me more?”

 Stark shakes his head. “No.”

 “We could help each other!” Bucky protests.

 “I don’t _want_ to help you!” Stark says. He pauses for a moment, ignoring Bucky’s wince. “And I don’t want to drag anyone else down with me. If I’m wrong, we’ll just all go down together, sinking to the bottom tied to absurd conspiracy theories.” He purses his lips. “Wouldn’t do. Can’t spread these things without proof.”

 “Are you gonna get proof?”

 Stark shrugs.

 Bucky nods, taking a step backward. “If you need anything, just know, I’m on your side.”

 Stark doesn’t react. In fact, he maintains an impeccably good poker face, if a little grim. Bucky walks down the steps to Stark’s garden and trots his way to the fence door, amid the fragrant perfect flowers, products of Stark’s obsessive tendencies.

 “Barnes?”

 Bucky spins almost hopefully.

 Stark is awkwardly scratching at the doorframe. “Do you remember anyone named Pepper?”

 Bucky wishes he did, just to get that sorrow out of Stark’s eyes.

 “Sorry,” he says.

 Stark slams the door shut.

~

 Bucky flops down on the couch, feet on the cushions and back against the armrest, mirroring Steve’s posture. Their bent legs meet in the middle; they knock against each other, making Steve smile. He nudges the back of Bucky’s leg with his foot and readjusts the sketchpad on his thighs.

 “Okay,” Bucky says, down to business. “Wanda is a witch. Dr. Banner works in a lab. Natasha is a ninja, maybe a spy, and Peter is... really agile.”

 “Also, he’s from Queens,” Steve supplies.

 “Scott likes ants –”

 “Ant-man,” Steve deadpans.

 Bucky can’t tell if he’s teasing, so he takes it as a fact.

 “Sam used to fly, so maybe a pilot,” Steve continues, but sounds unconvinced as he works on his outlines. “He remembers jumping in and out of helicopters. And he swears one time I got him out of prison.”

 “ _Prison_?” Bucky draws back, bewildered. “What for?”

 Steve’s lips curl upwards. “Guess what.”

 “What?” Bucky asks, curious.

 “We don’t remember.”

 Bucky groans, giving Steve’s ankle a small kick. “So he agrees?”

 “Yeah,” Steve says. “Thinks it’s too many people to be a coincidence.”

 “Well, make sure to inform him that he has... had? A pet bird,” Bucky says. “A red one.”

 “Sounds familiar.”

 Bucky falls onto the armrest. “I don’t get it. It should connect somehow, but it just gets more confusing.”

 Steve shrugs. “Small steps.”

 Bucky chews on his lip. “Clint has really good aim. And knows how to use a bow.”

 “Clint knows Natasha real well,” Steve adds absently.

 “Yeah, I think we’ll need something bigger.” Bucky watches Steve’s hands, nimble on the paper as he draws. “Whatcha working on?”

 Steve turns around the sketchpad. The drawing is still rough, but the flying man in the tin suit could be Stark, if the facial hair is anything to go by. The woman in the long coat strongly resembles Wanda, and the man down in a crouch looks close to Thor. There’s a huge plate by his feet, or an absurdly large Frisbee, or maybe even a kind of shield.

 Something stirs in Bucky’s mind. He tries to grasp at it, but it is there and gone as Steve turns the sketchpad his way.

 “Helps me unfocus,” Steve explains. “That way I don’t have to overthink, I can just say whatever comes to mind. Like _Clint knows Natasha real well_. And that they met because of Fury,” he adds.

 Bucky narrows his eyes. “Who?”

 Steve shakes his head helplessly. “Dunno. Might be making it up.”

 “Well, then, that might just be the most complicated, collectively made-up second life there ever was,” Bucky says.

 Steve smiles. “Thor... has a... hammer.”

 “He doesn’t,” Bucky says, lips curling in a smile of disbelief. “You’re thinking of the Norse God. Thor.”

 “He had a hammer,” Steve insists confidently.

 “Maybe he was – is? Maybe he is-was a carpenter.”

 Steve laughs. “What? He wasn’t, he was –”

 “Yeah?” Bucky looks at him eagerly.

 Steve squints, peering into that other world, sighing as he comes up empty.

 “Maybe he _is_ the Norse God,” Bucky teases.

 Steve mock-glares at him and Bucky grins. He gets to his knees, stretching to give Steve a quick, fond peck. Steve smiles against Bucky’s lips and pulls him closer, turns the peck into a kiss and the kiss into a nibble. He leans back, eyes on his drawing and mouth drawn in a cheeky grin.

 Bucky hums contentedly and nestles on his side.

 “Don’t feel like I’m making this up, though,” he says, shimmying to get comfortable. “Feels that I’m making up everything else. That I just come up with it when I need it, even though it wasn’t there before. Like when you wing a story, make it up as you go.”

 “Like we did when ma was working late,” Steve remarks absently.

 “Yeah.”

 Bucky looks at the drawing. Thor starts to look more like himself, arms full of muscles and the outline of a cape pooling around his legs.

 “You drawing superheroes?”

 “Yep,” Steve says, smacking his lips at the p.

 Bucky’s eyes light up. “What are they fighting?”

 “They’re getting revenge. For... injustices against Earth, our one and only planet,” Steve says.

 “The Revengers,” Bucky announces.

 “Avengers,” Steve corrects.

 Bucky lifts one shoulder– _sure, that sounds good too_ – but Steve blinks, pencil stopping mid-line. He stares at the floor, his eyes distant, and Bucky sits up straight.

 “What?”

 “The – I –” Steve shakes his head. “Nothing, just a flicker.”

 “Of what?” Bucky presses, voice colored with excitement.

 Steve shakes his head again. “Nothing I understand.”

 Bucky huffs out a sigh and falls back to Steve’s side. “You drawing everyone as a superhero?”

 “That’s the plan.”

 “Give me knives. I like knives.” Bucky wiggles his fingers as if playing an imaginary piano. “Good at handling them.”

 “Funny, I remember you with a rifle,” Steve says.

 Bucky smiles faintly. “Yeah?”

 “Yeah, but” – Steve cocks his head – “I remember you with a rifle in 1940s France and I’m wearing a blue helmet, so.”

 “That’s improbable,” Bucky says mildly.

 Steve snorts out a laugh. “But not impossible?”

 “Not impossible,” Bucky affirms. After a moment he adds wistfully, “Two separate lives and I don’t seem to have a flower shop in either.”

 “We’ll get the flower shop,” Steve assures.

 “Yeah?” Bucky tilts his head to look at Steve. “How’s our credit?”

 Steve makes noncommittal sounds and Bucky grins. Hell if either of them knows.

 “We’ll get the flower shop,” Steve insists.


	6. Chapter 6

 Bucky is almost used to waking up in the middle of the night, be it from nightmares or the recent Stark-induced mess. This time, however, it isn’t Steve’s nudging that wakes him up, nor his latest dream in the shape of shadows, a skull with gems for eyes and a woman named Pepper getting flicked aside as if she were a fly. Steve is sleeping beside him, occasionally flinching from his own dream but otherwise still, and Bucky props himself upwards, trying to pinpoint the source of his uneasiness. The drapes are half-open, allowing the moonlight to slip in; there’s no one in the bedroom but themselves.

 Ears perked and body on alert, Bucky listens to the silence. He is fully prepared to chalk his sleeplessness to his customary anxiety and does not expect to hear what comes next. The bumping noise from downstairs is soft enough to go unnoticed by anyone, certainly someone sleeping, but Bucky’s hearing is – super human, so to speak – and he has military training. He isn’t that surprised that he catches the sound, but he is rather concerned that someone is inside his house, prowling around at will.

 He slides out of bed and opens the door, thanking his lucky stars that it doesn’t creak. His heart beats rapidly with anticipation, adrenaline for the unknown but not so much with fear for survival. The staircase gives him tactical advantage, and he can come up with many imaginative ways on what household objects – cherished, but replaceable – can be used as weapons, should someone attempt to harm him or Steve. _Why_ anyone would attempt to harm them might be part of what they don’t remember, and apparently Dr. Banner was wrong. What they don’t remember does matter, it matters very, very much, and is about to get them into trouble.

 Bucky holds his breath as he peers down the landing. The bump is followed by a thud and a grunt as the intruder knocks against the coffee table. Stealthy he ain’t, and he is not being particularly careful either. 

 Bucky peers closer.

 The intruder is bare-chested, which, _why_ , or maybe the reason is to showcase those muscles that Bucky wouldn’t really choose to oppose, were he given the choice. Red markings cover his skin and face.

 And – well. He’s also of a greenish gray color.

 He also happens to be holding a knife, though from the size of it, it could also be a sword.

 He inexplicably turns on a lamp and hums his distaste at Bucky and Steve’s furniture.

 Bucky pads backwards, mind running over the fastest exit strategies with the least amount of fuss. He softly closes the bedroom door and darts to Steve.

 “Steve!” he hisses, shaking him.

 Steve jolts awake, his eyes instantly alert as he grabs Bucky’s wrist with the force of –

 Probably the force of the guy downstairs.

 He gasps, incredulous and relieved at once, stares at Bucky as though he hasn’t seen him for years. He lets out a winded laugh, a little too loud for Bucky’s liking, given the circumstances.

 “I know what Peggy meant,” he says, short of breath.

 Bucky clicks his tongue. He appreciates it, he really does, dreams are important and all, but right now, they’re in danger. Right now, they have to leave.

 “Get up,” Bucky whispers. “We’ve got to go.”

 He pulls Steve’s arm, dragging him urgently when Steve takes his sweet time.

 Steve grunts. “What’s wrong?”

 “There’s a gray tank of a man with weapons in our living room and I’d hate for him to find us,” Bucky says, hands on his hips as he settles on the back window as their way out.

 “What th– ”

 Steve hears it, another thud. Soon the man will be coming upstairs, and Bucky is relieved to see Steve square his shoulders and clench his jaw, taking on his Captain’s pose. Bless his military training and quick reflexes.

 “We’re jumping down the window,” Bucky informs.

 He pulls the drapes aside, opens the frames with swift hands and peers down. The back of their house is a bleak abandoned site of dry soil, withered bushes, sticks and gravel, until it meets concrete and the quiet street ahead. The fall won’t be pleasant, but it’s necessary.

 “It’s fine,” Steve says softly, his hand reassuring on Bucky’s back. “You’ll be fine.”

 “I know, jerk,” Bucky growls.

 He leaps in one breath, the air whistling around him as he goes. He lands down hard, rolls, and thrusts out his left arm to break his momentum. There’s no pain, no friction where it should be, no sharp or ragged digging in his palm –

  _Oh no_.

 Bucky snaps his head, sees the metal glinting under the moonlight, and he remembers. There’s no fear, no shock – just a veil that’s now removed and he can see. Steve lands beside him in a heap and Bucky jolts. Last time reality was itself, the villain du jour was Thanos, the mad purple Titan. Bucky doesn’t know how they ended here, but Thanos doesn’t like them very much; loitering in uncharted territory when a death squad could be on their heels is inadvisable.

 “C’mon,” he mutters, yanking Steve’s wrist and springing onward.

 He stumbles as his legs catch something hard and branch-like, some bush or thicket that no one bothered to trim – or maybe it had been their job to trim it. He kicks out until he frees his ankle, stumbling forward with a grunt. Steve grabs Bucky’s arm and drags him past the street, toward the safety of the darkened alleyways.

 So now he knows, and the gravel is rough under his bare feet, and he’s in his pajamas running for his life – not that Steve is in any better condition. Now he knows, and it’s less painful than he’d imagine, that part where he finally remembers. He never really forgot, just got sidetracked for a while, mind in hibernation until the gears were unjammed and started turning.

 It _was_ nice while it lasted.

 He would’ve bought a flower shop.

 He gives himself a mental shake. He has to tell Steve, and Stark and Wanda, make them see –

 He grimaces. Wanda. Vision died in her arms. Vision died in her arms when Thanos took the gem off his goddamn skull, and Wanda cried, tried to keep him alive, but couldn’t. Stark’s words now make much more sense.

 Steve motions to a dark alley with just enough space for a couple of trashcans, and Bucky follows. They crouch behind them as best they can, Steve grabbing a lid and keeping it handy, lest they need something to shield them. Bucky watches him fondly. He smirks, a lopsided faint grimace, because _Steve_. Even when he doesn’t remember, he’s still so Steve, so –

 “Stevie,” Bucky whispers stiffly, “there’s something I’ve got to tell you.”

 “I’m assuming it can’t wait?” Steve says, distracted. He’s half-turned, fumbling with something obscured from Bucky’s view.

 “Not really,” Bucky says patiently.

 Steve sighs, bracing himself. He turns to Bucky, his face resigned as he presents a hanger, a dirty spoon bent weirdly out of shape, and a chipped teacup.

 “Take them,” he says.

 Bucky scrunches his nose dubiously. “They’re dirty.”

 “Yeah, but just –”

 “They were in the garbage,” Bucky persists, wildly blindsided.

 “ _Take them_ ,” Steve says, urgently pushing the items into Bucky’s hands.

 Bucky wants to recoil because – dirt. He _knows_ dirt, but he’d rather avoid it when it isn’t necessary.

 “You know how to use them, I swear,” Steve insists. “You’ll know when you need to, just take them.”

 Bucky shakes his head, thoroughly confused. “What?”

 It slots into place.

 “Wait, what? You remember?”

 Steve lowers his eyebrows. “ _You_ remember?”

 “I fucking just did!” Bucky exclaims, frustrated, dumping the potential weapons by his feet.

 “I just told you!” Steve says. “I told you, back in the house, _I know what Peggy meant_ , and you said nothing!”

 “I didn’t know then, I –” Bucky rakes a hand through his hair – “Jesus. What’s _happening_?”

 Steve glances at the silent street. “Last thing I know is the battle with Thanos.” He turns to Bucky, studying him as though checking for battle wounds. “He did a number on us,” he says quietly.

 “And then what?” Bucky prods. The last thing _he_ remembers is seeing Steve unconscious, not knowing whether he was alive or dead. He’d rather not dwell on it right now.

 “Then this,” Steve says. He looks toward the street again. “Think they’re here to kill us?”

 “Who’s _they_?” Bucky asks. “Where’s _here!_ ”

 The scuffling sound sends them on their feet. Steve grabs the trash lid shield, his mouth tight around the corners. Bucky grabs the teacup and the hanger. What the hell; nothing makes sense anymore, and he _has_ been trained for this.

 Two people run by, almost miss them – but only almost. They come into an abrupt halt when they spot them.

 Two... _beings_ , maybe.

 A person and a creature.

 A man, who exclaims a relieved “Oh!” too loud in the stillness of the night and props his two-barreled weapon to his belt, and a – tree-ish creature. A little taller than the man, all wood, branches and green mossy veins, its black beady eyes glaring accusingly at Bucky.

 The man opens his arms in frustration. “For fuck’s sake, guys, why did you run? Cap, Winter, I’m Star-Lord, this is Groot – down, boy,” he says, as the creature named Groot balls its hands – hands? – into fists. 

 “I am Groot,” Groot wheezes, glowering at Bucky.

 Bucky glowers back, mostly on principle.

 “I know, he didn’t do it on purpose, okay, he didn’t know,” assures the blond man that calls himself Star-Lord.

 Bucky chances a glance at Steve. It’s at least appeasing that he looks as dumbfounded as Bucky feels.

 “You kicked him on your way out,” Star-Lord tells Bucky. “He –” he makes a wavy, slithering motion with his hands – “threw out his branches to keep you from running ‘cause it just complicates things for all of us, chasing you around town when we really, _really_ don’t have the time for that. You kinda kicked him, and he’s kinda pissed off.”

 Bucky shuffles and renews his grip on the teacup.

 “Anyway, we’re the Guardians of the Galaxy,” Star-Lord informs. “We’re here to save you.”

 In the awkward silence that follows, crickets chirp, tumbleweeds roll, and in the far distance a falling star shoots down the sky. Maybe the creature named Groot even grows a few new leaves.

 “Who?” Steve says eventually.

 “It’s fine, you don’t get it, you don’t know,” Star-Lord says. “You don’t remember, but we’ll deal with that. We’re the Guardians of the Galaxy, here to save you and then save Earth, hopefully _with_ you, from a mad, batshit insane guy named Thanos? Super powerful on his own, doubly so because of the Infinity Stones. Always hated those things.”

 “I am Groot,” Groot says, possibly commiserating, although it’s rather hard to tell.

 “You’re Captain America, you’re the Winter Soldier,” Star-Lord goes on, “and you’re both – you’re great! Super cool. Super strong. But Thanos kicked your ass and now you’re here. And we’re saving you.” Star-Lord beckons impatiently. “Come on, we’re on the same side!” he says, just short of stomping his foot like a child.

 Steve and Bucky exchange a look, Steve’s a question, Bucky’s a shrug. Steve relaxes his grip on his makeshift shield, but doesn’t let go. Bucky still grips his teacup, the hanger dropped somewhere by his feet.

 “What did Thanos do?” Steve asks.

 “He started a war against the galaxy,” Star-Lord says casually. “Fun times, everyone’s in danger.”

 “What did he do to _us_?” Steve clarifies.

 “Uh.” Star-Lord cards a hand through his hair. “It’s kind of complicated and I’m sure all of your teammates are asking the same thing, so we’d rather explain it to all of you in the relative safety of our spacecraft instead of here, in a godforsaken pocket universe courtesy of Thanos. We’re really screwed if he figures out what’s happening.”

 “A pocket universe,” Steve repeats flatly.

 Bucky should be more surprised, but – meh.

 “Right, exactly,” Star-Lord says. “I know it’s a bit much, but maybe you can have your meltdown later? In the safety of –”

 “I am Groot,” Groot says, shooting a glare at Bucky.

 “No, we’re saving both of them, stop it!” Star-Lord chides.

 “I didn’t know!” Bucky blurts out, despite his better judgment, or because of it.

 “It’s a difficult age, don’t mind him,” Star-Lord assures. “C’mon. Just trust me on this. You’re the _Avengers_ , right, and you –”

 “No, we – we remember,” Steve says, but he’s lost some of his initial composure. “We remember, we know.”

 “You do?! Holy shit, that’s fucking great!” Star-Lord exclaims in relief.

 “I am Groot,” the tree seems to agree.

 “How did you find us then?” Steve asks warily. “If we’re in an alternate universe –”

 “Dr. Strange. He brought us here, he’s helping round up the others, clear up their memories, and boy does he have things to do, so we’d better hurry, or he’ll be pis –”

 “Who?” Bucky interrupts.

 “Dr. Strange,” Star-Lord says impatiently. “Doctor. Strange” – he singles out each word, stressing consonants and stretching vowels. He leans forward, eyes comically wide and arms gesturing in waves as though attempting hypnotism – “ _Remember._ _Doctor. Strange._ ”

 “I don’t _know_. _Doctor. Strange_ ,” Bucky says darkly, using the same intonation.

 “Oh, okay, he’s a sorcerer,” Star-Lord replies easily. “The supreme one. Now can we go?”

~

 It’s easier than it should be, deciding to follow the strange fella named Star-Lord and the humanoid tree to an alien spacecraft. When it comes down to it, Steve and Bucky don’t see any viable alternative. They’re allowed to grab a few things from their house and say a farewell to what was, not so much because Star-Lord is sentimental; they’re literally barefoot in their pajamas and aren’t likely to come across malls in the near future. Steve grabs his sketchpad. Bucky looks for something of value and eventually grabs the pancake spatula.

 Fucking pancakes.

 Apparently, they’re the last ones to make it to the spacecraft. The Avengers are assembled in the back, in what looks to be a common area – spacious enough to fit everyone, but messy enough to drive anyone out. Guns, bullets, papers with blueprints and half-eaten bars are crowding every surface. The lights are low enough that one could easily miss the mess if they were just passing by, on their way to the spacecraft’s bowels or cockpit.

 Bruce is on top of the situation, pushing aside papers discreetly to make a seat for himself on a leather bench, keeping his fair distance. Thor stands beside him, his finger grimly resting on his lips, his face the face of someone who’s waiting for the verdict on their possible death sentence. And maybe he is, though the thought doesn’t do much in the way of comfort; Thor knows more about worlds and universes than most of the earth-bound Avengers.

 Star-Lord disappears down a corridor and Bucky moves closer to Steve, his eyes searching for Wanda. He finds her on a bench, dressed in jeans and a long shirt, as if she’d been prepared for this. Her eyes red-rimmed, she gives him a small wave. Beside her, Clint tiredly brushes back his hair and sags against the wall. He’d win an Outfit of the Spacecraft contest easily, in his coffee-print purple pajama bottoms and a t-shirt meant for someone the size of the Hulk loosely falling off his shoulder.

 Bucky catches movement and spots Sam. He comes to stand beside Steve, his expression between grim amusement and rightful disbelief as he raises his hands to his hips.

 “What the hell, man,” he mutters.

 Steve licks his lips and lifts his shoulders, about to give a Captain’s answer. He quickly deflates, finding none.

 “Told you you got me out of prison.”

 “That you did,” Steve agrees.

 “Alien Guy and Mantis looking kind of amused,” Sam says, nodding at the large table in the middle of the room.

 The green-gray man from Bucky and Steve’s living room, still not wearing a shirt, is observing the Avengers. The young woman on his side –

 Well, she has antennae sprouting off her forehead.

  _Fine_.

 Bucky’s seen stranger things.

 “Do we trust them?” Sam asks in an undertone.

 “Do we have a choice?” Steve retorts.

 “We’re all here,” Bucky points out. “Should count for something.”

 He folds his arms and looks at the source of the low murmurs past Sam – Peter and Scott conversing in quick tones. Something grazes Bucky’s arm, making him turn. He looks into the eyes of Groot, who watches him with what looks to be a pout as he goes. Bucky groans, arms falling to his sides in resignation.

 “Will you let it go already,” he complains sulkily.

 Steve gives him a strange look and snorts, loud enough for Natasha to glare at him from her perch. Steve shoots her an apologetic smile. She shakes her head, hand back at idly scratching Pizza Dog, who’s lazily wagging his tail by her feet. Apparently, they’re recruiting alternate universe creatures.

 Stark appears from within yet another corridor, speaking to a man with a goatee and a red cloak. The stranger looks like he’s been plucked right out of a magic tale, but the night is too unusual for such judgment.

 Rhodes extracts himself from a conversation with T’Challa and slides to Sam’s side.

 “I hope we didn’t leave the world’s fate in Tony’s hands,” he says, crossing his arms as he looks at Stark’s way. “I love him, but practical he ain’t.”

 “That Doctor Strange?” Steve asks.

 “Yep,” Sam replies sternly. “Fixed our heads, so to speak.”

 “It was –” Rhodes rolls his shoulders, his expression sour – “It was unpleasant. Didn’t he do you too?”

 Steve shakes his head. “Wasn’t needed. We beat him to it.”

 Dr. Strange nods, an oversized eye-shaped necklace bobbing on his chest. He mutters something in Stark’s ear, Stark humming his understanding. The spacecraft begins to vibrate, a low mechanical hum filling the air. They’re taking off to God knows where, while Dr. Strange opts to take off through an entirely different route. A bubble the height of a person materializes out of nowhere, hovers a little off the floor. Its soft, near-transparent edges shimmer, and inside it there is another room, a place altogether different than the spacecraft surrounding them. The man steps inside the bubble, no hesitation in his stride. Once he’s off the physical space of the spacecraft, his back retreating toward the room, the bubble closes in itself and disappears.

  _Figures_.

 Stark tilts his head, lifting his hands to his waist and voicing Bucky’s sentiment: “Huh.” He turns to the assembled Avengers, eyebrows raised in numb disbelief. “Dr. Strange. Aptly named because he’s oh so very strange. Also, he stole my facial hair. So listen, we’re fucked.”

 “That you are,” says a voice coming into the room.

 Star-Lord is walking into the room too, but it’s not _his_ voice. Bucky looks down to locate the speaker. He finds a raccoon in a black and orange uniform. He clamps his mouth shut and stubbornly refuses to be startled.

 “Not just us, you smartass, all of us,” Stark snaps, unbothered by the talking animal. Clearly they’ve already met. “You and us together.”

 “The world in general, I’d say,” offers the green-skinned woman that enters last. “Autopilot’s engaged.”

 “Introductions for the late-comers, that’s Gamora,” Stark says. “Lil’ panda’s Rocket, tattoo god is Drax, insect lady you avoid ‘cause she can read your emotions.”

 “Mantis,” Mantis introduces herself.

 “They saved the galaxy a couple of times. Don’t ask, they’ll tell you all about it down to the last excruciating detail.”

 “You say we were in a pocket universe.” T’Challa steps forward, his back straight and his chin held high, every bit the king that he is as he addresses the Guardians. “That it wasn’t safe. Are we safe now?”

 “As much as we can be,” Gamora offers, leaning against the wall, “with Thanos in possession of the gauntlet.”

 “Which is to say, not at all,” Rocket the raccoon clarifies, jumping up onto a chair, tiny elbows propping him up on the table. “But it’s safer than that playhouse you were at.”

 “Dr. Strange has cast protection and concealment spells,” Star-Lord says. “Or something something, I dunno. He’s a good ally.”

 “Pocket universe,” Natasha says sharply. “Explain.”

 “Take a piece of the world as you know it, double it, there you have it, pocket universe,” Star-Lord says dismissively. “The world goes on as it is – which is to say, it’s not going on very well at the moment. But, the world goes on, and the mini universe does its own thing. Or something,” he says, looking at Gamora for help. “Dr. Strange’s words were, well, _stranger_ ,” he puns, and Rocket snickers. “I’m simplifying.”

 “But why not kill us?” Stark asks.

 Drax lets out a laugh. “For a woman!”

 Stark purses his lips. “Pardon?”

 “It’s, uh... It’s – it’s – it’s the purest emotion, really,” Star-Lord says awkwardly. “Thanos is, um...”

 “Thanos is in love with Lady Death,” Gamora takes over.

 “Lady Death,” Thor echoes grimly, probably the only Avenger who can follow this discussion.

 Natasha mutters something very Russian and very obscene. Bucky wholeheartedly agrees.

 Sam steps forward. “When you say Lady Death.”

 “Death,” Gamora says simply. “The personification thereof.”

 “Oh,” Sam says feebly. “Nice.”

 “She basically doesn’t give a rat’s ass about him, it’s fine,” Star-Lord adds. “He apparently thought it would impress her if he sacrificed the infamous mighty Avengers in her presence.”

 “As in, _Hello my love, look at what pets I’ve brought you, now let me slaughter them at your feet_ ,” Rocket says, fiddling with the tiny bits and pieces of a disconcertingly large disassembled weapon.

 “Uh huh, uh huh,” Stark says mechanically, eyes worryingly unblinking.

 “Lady Death isn’t a ‘summon-me-and-I’ll-be-there’ kind of entity,” Gamora continues, “so he had to wait. He sent you to an alternate pocket universe ripped off of a little town at the edge of nowhere, where you’d live memory-fuddled lives with minimal stimulation, so that things wouldn’t fall into place and you wouldn’t riot until Lady Death came.”

 “And then we saved you,” Star-Lord supplies.

 “But we thought we’d been living there forever,” Clint says. “We had memories.”

 “Came up with memories,” Gamora corrects. “The human mind tends to fill in gaps or gloss over things that don’t make sense. That’s what you did.”

 “I am Groot,” Groot says.

 “Well, yeah, it wouldn’t last long,” Star-Lord agrees. “You’re very smart people with very dangerous ambitions, you’d figure it out.”

 Steve cocks his head. “Dangerous?”

 “For Thanos,” Drax clarifies, lest it be implied that the Avengers could in any way be a match for the Guardians.

 “But all’s well that ends well and all that,” Star-Lord says, rubbing his palms together. “We’re awesome, you’re awesome, together we’re double awesome and taking that bastard down. You in?” he asks. “In? In?” he repeats, looking at Avengers at random.

 “We’re in,” Stark says. “We’re in?” He turns around for confirmation. “That’s what we’ve been trying to do ourselves –”

 “Of course we are,” Thor interjects, voice less thunderous than usual.

 “How do we accomplish that?” T’Challa asks. “If he’s as powerful as you say?”

 “Eh, I’m sure those guys have a plan,” Stark says.

 “We definitely do not have a plan,” Rocket provides.

 Stark clearly swallows down a scathing remark.

 “Hey, we’ll figure it out, we’ll brainstorm,” Star-Lord says.

 “I am Groot.”

 “Well, if you say so,” Rocket tells him.

 “Okay, we have some rooms prepared. Can we show you to your rooms?” Star-Lord says mock ceremonially. “Or _the_ rooms,” he amends. “’S not like we assigned you beds, you’re all friends, you can do you – Anyway, never mind. Come on.”

 The Avengers are tired. They are red-eyed, hollow-faced, their shoulders slumped and their bravado nearly extinguished. Natasha squeezes arms and gives tentative smiles to lift spirits, and Rhodes gently eggs people to “Come on now,” “Let’s get some rest,” following after Star-Lord and Gamora. Steve shoots a look behind him; Bucky nods at him to go.

 Clint whistles at Pizza Dog. “Come on, boy.”

 “Pizza Dog?” Bucky says, sitting next to Wanda. “Really?”

 “We’re pals now,” Clint says, practically propping Pizza Dog upright. “I couldn’t leave him.”

 So far mostly quiet either by choice or due to shock, Peter walks to Pizza Dog, gives him a ruffle and a pat. Pizza Dog sniffs him and licks his palm, earning a taut smile before Peter slides down the wall, letting his hand fall back with a dull thud.

 “Stark” – Clint beckons to the man in question – “C’mon.”

 Stark looks around, finds nothing else that he can do. He nods wearily and follows, stopping beside Peter as he goes. “You okay?”

 Peter exhales a dry chuckle. “Of course, Mr. Stark.”

 Stark starts to speak, but decides not to. He squeezes Peter’s shoulder, nods at Wanda and Bucky with a tight-lipped trace of a smile and heads down the corridor, the last of the Avengers to leave the room.

 Silence falls, easy and soothing. Peter draws his knees up to his chest, his fingers toying absently with a piece of string. Wanda rests her head on Bucky’s shoulder. Rocket keeps working on the weapon as Groot idles by his side, gently swaying to a rhythm in his head. Drax and Mantis retreat down yet another corridor.

 The spacecraft is probably bigger than most of the houses Bucky’s ever set foot in.

 His world was small; his world is infinitely expanded.

  _Fine_.

 “He died for a gem,” Wanda says quietly.

 Bucky can do little in the way of comfort. He gently rests his hand on hers.

 She lets out a wet laugh. “Can you believe we made jam and liqueurs?”

 “Who knew we had that kind of skills,” Bucky says around a smile.

 “I know the mind,” Wanda says, her voice tired. “How did I not see it sooner?”

 “I mean, I missed that I had a fucking metal arm,” Bucky points out dryly.

 “That too,” Wanda agrees. “It would be too much of a telltale, I guess. If we saw, maybe we’d remember. You, first, and then ourselves.”

 “ _I_ saw your arm,” Peter pipes up.

 Bucky leans forward, blinking in disbelief. “What?”

 “I saw the metal arm, I just never said anything.” Peter lifts his shoulders helplessly. “What could I say? The vets that love the Mets never talked about their past, I couldn’t just ask, and – I didn’t talk about it with anyone, it was none of my business. I assumed it was a war wound thing.”

 Bucky huffs out a mirthless chuckle.

 “But we’re gonna get him, right?” Peter asks.

 He’s strong, sure, and he is eager, a savior and a fighter, but above all Peter’s young, and it shows now more than ever. His eyes are vulnerable, almost pleading, asking for a promise that Bucky doesn’t know if he can give. A hard-hearted fist crawls its way around his chest and squeezes.

 Wanda picks up the silence. “We’ll try,” she asserts.

 “We’ll get him, kid,” Rocket affirms, eyes on his weapon.

 He sounds so confident, so certain, that Bucky lets himself believe it.

 “I am Groot.”

 Bucky lets himself believe that, too.

~

 Bucky changes into day clothes, all of them the shade of cheerful black, and enters his room, one that he’s to share with Steve, Scott and Peter. The only one currently inside is Steve, opting for some quiet time. He’s sitting on the low bed, hunched over his sketchpad, a familiar image of a familiar face. He’s drawing, fingers quick and eyes focused, and Bucky almost shuffles away, not wanting to disturb.

 C _ould be boyfriend; should be;_ is _he_? 

 Alternate context isn’t alternate intentions or emotions, not for him, not for anyone as far as Bucky knows. Part of him thinks it would be silly to even bring the question up, still feels one part of a twofold together. The rest of him goes wobbly at the knees and needs the reassurance.

 Steve lifts his head, his smile easy when he sees him. He reaches out and Bucky mirrors him, stretching to reach back. Steve gently pulls him to the bed. Bucky sits, close but not too much, attempting to read the terrain.

 Steve frowns.

 “Come closer,” he says, wrapping his arm around Bucky’s waist, dragging him beside him.

 “Hm?” Bucky says eloquently.

 “I just like feeling you close,” Steve says, balancing the sketchpad on his knees.

 He cups his hand around Bucky’s neck and pulls him in, locks Bucky’s lower lip between his own in a kiss, slow, tender and familiar. Bucky grabs at Steve’s thigh to steady himself, heart thudding and skin raising in thrilled shivers. It’s not a first kiss, but it’s a first kiss within the proper universe; it has to count for something.

 Steve pulls back a little. Bucky giddily flutters his eyelids, mouth still parted to the shape of Steve’s lips.

 “Hey,” Steve says, rubbing Bucky’s neck, his face split into a smile.

 “Hey,” Bucky murmurs.

 “We made it. Figured it out.”

 Bucky doesn’t know if he means this – their way into the real universe, or _this_ – the way to each other in the _real universe._ Both are good and both are true and Bucky giggles, tired and done, loved and loving.

 “What?” Steve mutters tenderly as Bucky snuggles next to him, entwining their fingers.

 “Nothin’,” Bucky says. “Just you.”

 Steve kisses the top of Bucky’s head. He makes a strange, wet sound, tongue peeping between his teeth in a feeble attempt at a spit. He grimaces and pries a stray hair off the edge of his mouth. Bucky snorts.

 “You shedding?”

 “I’m _regenerating_ ,” Bucky says smugly. “Whatcha drawing?”

 “Our future flower shop,” Steve says, and his face –

 He beams brightly, and Bucky purrs. He purrs like a goddamned cat – he isn’t proud. It makes Steve laugh though, and pet his hair, and Bucky snuggles closer, threading his arm though Steve’s as he gazes at the beginnings of his drawing.

 The world is damn near burning. Bucky remembers the fires, the terror, the screams and the purple whirlpools tearing apart the sky. The world is damn near burning, and Bucky, Steve, the Avengers and the Guardians are going down fighting. There might be a respite in the near future, or there might be just this – the last moment of peace before the clash, the grit, the mayhem and the rebirth. The world is damn near burning, and Steve is dreaming up a flower shop, hope and humanity shining through him despite the chaos and the darkness.  

 “Steve?”

 “Mm?”

 Bucky follows the movement of Steve’s pencil on what he now dubs the Paper of the Future. “I’m not a sap.”

 “Mm hm,” Steve humors him.

 Bucky slouches against Steve’s arm. “Think it’s too pretentious to name the shop after you?”

 Steve raises his eyebrows. “Steve?”

 “Bucky’s Sunshine,” Bucky says pompously.

 Steve snorts out a laugh. “What?”

 “The Better Half in Bucky’s Team,” Bucky suggests. “Bucky’s Most Favorite In All Of Time In The History Of Ever.” He tilts his head upwards to look at Steve, vulnerable and earnest.

 Steve stares at him. He tries to school his features into something serious, but there’s a playful twinkle in his eyes that he can’t quite hide. “These are terrible. And I love you.”

 Bucky grins.

 “Jerk.”


End file.
